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SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 

Educational Publishers 

CHICAQO NEW YORK 



ZTbeXafte lengUob Claeetce 

EDITED BY 

LINDSAY TODD DAMON, A.B. 

Professor of English Literature and Rhetoric im 
Broutn UnivtrtUy 



AN INLAND VOYAGE 

AND 

TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 



BY 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON" 



• EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE 

BY 

ARTHUR WILLIS LEONARD, A. B. 

INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH 
PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER, MASSACHUSETTS 



CHICAGO NEW YORK 

SCOTT, FORESMAjST AND COMPANY 



9^^ 



Copyright 1910 

BY 

SCOTT, rORESMAN AND COMPANY 



©CI.A273310 



I TABLE OF CONTEXTS. 

[ntroduction. page. 

I. Biographical Sketch 7 

II. An Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey.... 22 

Til . Chronology 24 

IV. A Brief Bibliography 2o 

A.UTHOR 's Preface 27 

.A.N Inland Voyage 29 

Antwerp to Boom 31 

On the Willebroek Canal 35 

The Royal Sport Nautique 40 

At Maubeuge 45 

On the Sambre Canalized 50 

At Landreeies 70 

Sambre and Oise Canal 74 

The Oise in Flood 78 

Origny Sainte-Benoite S6 

Down the Oise 98 

To Moy 98 

La Fere of Cursed Memory 103 

Through the Golden Valley 109 

Noyon Cathedral Ill 

To Compiegne 115 

At Compiegne 117 

Changed Times 122 

Church Interiors 127 

Preey and the Marionettes 133 

Back to the World 143 



6 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Travels with a Donkey 145 

Velay 147 

The Greeu Donkey-Driver 153 

T Have a Goad 162 

Upper Gevaudan 16s 

Cheylard and Lnc 17'.' 

Our Lady of the Snows 183 

The Monks 188 

The Boarders 196 

Across the Goulet 202 

A Night Among the Pines 205 

The Country of the Camisards 210 

Pont de Montvert , 216 

In the Valley of the Tarn ' 222 

Florae 232 

On the Valley of the Mimente 235 

The Heart of the Country 239 

The Last Day 247 

Farewell, Modestine ^52 



IXTKODUCTIOX 
I 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Eobcrt Louis Stevenson was born in Edinburgh on Xo- 
vember 13, 1850. He came of a family conspicuous for 
worthy accomplishment. His mother was the daughter of 
Lewis Balfour, minister of the parish of Colinton, and 
granddaughter of James Balfour, a professor in the I^ni- 
versity of Edinburgh. His father, Thomas Stevenson, a 
nieml)er of a firm of lighthouse builders, continued with 
distinction a profession in which the family had already 
won notable success. The firm of Stevensons, which in- 
cluded Robert Louis's two uncles, Alan and David, built 
a large number of shore-lights and beacons, chief among 
them the noble deep-sea light of Skerryvore. Thomas 
Stevenson was a man fond of books and a somewhat prolific 
writer on subjects relating to his own profession; a man, 
his son records with pride, "of reputation comparatively 
small at home, 3^et filling the world." His chief success 
was Avon in his inventions for the improvement of light- 
house illumination, which "entitled their author to the 
name of one of mankind's benefactors." ^ 

That Louis should take up the hereditary profession of 
his family w^as at first assumed as a matter of course, but 
the leadings of his genius determined otherwise. Many 
of the influences of his boyhood w^re such as to awaken 
and stimulate an imaginative nature. The intervals of his 
formal schooling (which was rendered intermittent by his 

^ Memories and Portraits : Thomas Stevenson. 

7 



3 INTEOD'UCTION 

frail health) were spent in travel, — to Germany and Hol- 
land, to Italy and :the south of France, to England, and, 
not least, to the lighthouses on the coast of Fife, in con- 
genial neighborhood to the sea. The impression made by 
all these fresh and changing experiences upon the quick 
imagination of the boy may be inferred from a passage 
written in later years: "When the Scotch chikl sees them 
first [the English windmills] he falls immediately in love ; 
and from that time forward windmills keep turning in his 
dreams. And so, in their degree, with every feature of the 
life and landscape. The warm, habitable age of towns and 
hamlets, the green, settled, ancient look of the country; 
the bush hedgerows, stiles, and privy pathways in the 
fields, the sluggish, brimming rivers; chalk and smock- 
frocks; chimes of bells and the rapid, pertly sounding Eng- 
lish speech — they are all new to the curiosity; they are all 
set to English airs in the child's story that he tells himself 
at night." 

The effect of such scenes, and of those in the neighbor- 
hood of the Manse of C'olinton, where he often visited 
his grandfather, the Reverend Mr. Balfour, was further 
increased by Louis's love of reading. Even before he 
could read with ease — and that ability came some- 
what tardily, — he began to take keen delight in listening 
to romantic and adventurous stories, stories of the sort 
that always appealed to him strongly even in liis 
maturest years. "For my part," he says, speaking of his 
boyhood preference, ^^I liked a story to begin with an old 
wayside inn where, ^towards the end of the year 17 — , 
several gentlemen were playing bowls.' . . . Give 
me a highwayman, and I was full to the brim ; a Jacobite 
would do, but a highwayman was my favorite dish." 

Such a boy would naturally turn early to writing, though 
A History of Moses, dictated in his sixth year, and 
Travels in Perth, written in his ninth, bear no sign of 



INTKUJUUCTIUN 9 

special precocity. The chief Rignificance of these early 
efforts is that their author was already busy on his "own 
private end, w^hich was to learn to write/' ^ 

When he was seventeen, Stevenson entered the University 
of Edinburgh, with the intention of ultimately becoming 
an engineer. At the various schools which he had previ- 
ously attended — among them tlie Edinl)urgh Academy — 
his industry had been languid and interrupted because of 
his ill health and natural disinclination to perform set 
tasks. Now, his application to the work of the Uni- 
versity classes was much impaired 1)y "ai; extensive 
and highly rational system of truantry.^' But if he 
had little or no interest in prescribed studies, his 
mind, "insatiably curious in the aspects of life,'' found 
much to absorb it. He read widely in English poetry, 
fiction, and essays, and, if less widely, still considerabh^, 
in French literature. He took a great interest in Scottish 
history, and was a genuine student of it. He had a share 
in founding the Edinburgh Literary Magazine. He be- 
came a member of the famous Speculative Society. — an 
undergraduate literary organization which had enrolled 
Walter Scott among its members, — and took an active part 
in its discussions. In consequence of much reading and 
speculation, he began to question certain matters of reli- 
gious dogma. This attitude of doubt caused for a time 
a breach between him and his father, who held a strictly 
orthodox faith; yet the son, though greatly grieved at a 
difference with one for whom he felt so much affection 
and esteem, was too sincere wdth himself to conceal his 
convictions. 

In the meantime, steady application to what for him was 
the main business of these university years was showing 
results. Continuing to practise the art of writing *'as 

^ For the full text of this passage, often quoted as good coun- 
sel for young writers, see Memories and Portraits: A College 
Magazine. 



20 INTKOD'UCTIOX 

men learn to whittle, in a wager witli liimself," he produced 
much in both prose and verse — romances, poetical dramas, 
lyrics, epics — most of which he kept to himself and finally 
destroyed. In his twent3'-third year he made his first con- 
tribution to a regular periodical, an essay entitled Roads. 
In the same year several friends whose opinion he valued 
urged him to adopt letters as a profession. 

Several years before this, his purpose to follow the 
calling of his father, a purpose never more than half- 
heartedly entertained, had been given over entirely. This 
change of plan was not made because Stevenson had shown 
no aptitude for engineering ; in the same year in which he 
made his decision he received from the Edinburgh Society 
of Arts a silver medal for a paper on the improvement of 
lighthouse apparatus. Nor was the engineer's life likely to 
prove wholly uncongenial, the opportunity for seafaring 
appealing to him strongly. But for the drudgery of the 
oftice he was entirely unfitted by reason of his health and 
his impatience of irksome confinement. Accordingly, in 
1871, it was decided, with great reluctance on the fathers 
part, that Louis should study law. For. his legal studies 
he manifested somewhat more zeal than for t^e more 
mechanical subjects that preceded them, though his work 
was interrupted by a severe illness, with symptoms which 
threatened consumption. In 1875, he passed his examina- 
tions with credit, and was admitted to the bar of Scotland. 
For a time, chiefly to please his parents, he made some 
attempt to practise ; but, though he attended trials and ap- 
peared in legal wig and gown, the sum total of his briefs 
was four. The absence of clients was no sorrow to him ; 
there w^as all the more leisure for his chosen craft. 

But even these none too serious attempts he felt to be 
an impediment to the exercise of his true occupation, and 
he soon abandoned them altogether. Eeleased from the 
restrictions of a formal profession, he began to lead a life 



INTROD'UCTION 11 

of such sort as he had long desired. For the next three 
years he spent much time between Edinburgh, London, and 
Fontainebleau, in frequent contact with literary men and 
artists, who, of kindred enthusiasms with himself, were 
able to discern his unusual promise and in turn to stimulate 
and inspire him. His life during those days, free from 
convention and touched with vagabondage, yet filled with 
the gro^^■ing interests of his profession, passed very pleas- 
antly. Frequent excursions in the open air, among 
them those recounted in An Inland Voyage and Travels 
with a Donl-ey, insured him passable health. He was be- 
ginning to find a footing as an author, and though as 
yet recognition from the public was slight, several dis- 
criminating critics saw in him the signs of genius. In 
1877 he published his first story, A Lodging for the Night, 
and, in the next year, his first book. An Inland Voyage. 
This was followed in 1879 by Travels with a Donkey. 
About this time he wrote also a considerable number of 
essays, notably several of the series afterwards printed in 
Virginihus Pueriscjue and Familiar Studies of Men and 
Bools; the volume of fantastic tales entitled New Arabian 
Nights; and the two stories Will o' the Mill and The Sire 
de Maletroit's Door. 

In 1876, upon his return from his travels in the 
Cevennes, Stevenson met at Grez an American lady, Mrs. 
Osbourne, who, having separated from her husband, was 
living with her two children in France. He immediately 
fell in love. When, in the early part of 1879, Mrs. Os- 
bourne returned to America, he determined, quite unwisely 
in the judgment of his family and friends, to follow her. 

That Stevenson should cross the Atlantic practically as 
a steerage passenger, and, after his arrival in Xew York, 
continue his journey in an emigrant train, was a proceed- 
ing quite in accordance with his unconventional character. 
Moreover, he had little money, and was too independent to 



12 INTEOD'UCTTON 

apply to his father for assistance. Once thrown among 
emigrants, with whom his contact was, as with all men, 
sympathetic and observing, he turned his experiences to 
good account, both for enjoyment at the time and for 
literary material afterwards. The journey is pleasantly 
recorded in An Amateur Emif/rant and Across the Plains. 

In California he fell upon evil days. Poverty, sickness, 
and exposure all but cost him his life. But even in 
these most adverse circumstances he kept his customary 
bravery of spirit, and, though he could write but little, still 
continued to write. Besides some unimportant work for 
California newspapers and two or three essays, he wrote 
The Pavilion on the Linl's and The Amateur Emir/rant, 
and drafted Prince Otto. Happily the period of straitened 
circumstances did not last long. In April Stevenson re- 
ceived from his father the assurance of an income sufficient 
for his needs. In May he and Mrs. Osbourne, who six 
months before had been divorced from her husband, were 
married. As soon as he had recovered, under his wife's 
nursing, from the worst of his illness, they w^nt to live 
for a time in a deserted mining camp above Calistoga — the 
scene of The Silverado Squatters. 

The following August Stevenson returned with his wife 
to Scotland. For the next seven years, in quest of health 
for both, they made frequent changes of residence, sojourn- 
ing at different places in Scotland, at Davos Platz, at the 
pleasfint Chrdet la Solitude at Hyeres, and finally at 
Bournemouth, England. Under these conditions, to which 
the energies of most men would have succumbed entirely, 
Stevenson continued to work, not only persistently but 
bravely and cheerfully, as if indeed, as he said, the 
medicine bottle on his chimney and the blood on his hand- 
kerchief were but accidents. It was during these years that 
popular recognition, so long withheld, came to him at last. 
Treasure I si and, which, had attracted but little notice when 



INTEOD'UCTIOX 13 

publislied as a serial in a boys' paper, achieved, upon its 
appearance in book form in 1883, a rapid and widespread 
popularity. Three years later, the author's reputation 
was still further increased, and his supremacy among 
tlie younger English writers of the day was established, by 
two stories. Kidnapped and Dr. Jel-yll and Mr. Hyde. In 
Kidnapped, if the interest of romantic adventure was not, 
in. the minds of some readers, so exciting or so sustained 
as in Treasure Island, there was yet the sign of a surer 
hand for character, and the very atmosphere of Scotland. 
Dr. Jel-yll and Mr. llyde, in which the conception of two 
opposing moral natures in man was presented in realistic- 
ally concrete form, with vivid effects of mystery and 
terror, produced an even w4der response. To this period 
belong also two remarkable tales, Thrawn Janet and The 
Merry Men, and two volumes of poetry, A Child's Garden 
of Verses and Underwoods. 

In 1887 Stevenson began that period of wanderings 
which was to lead him through many new scenes and 
strange adventures, and to end in romantic exile. Feeling, 
upon the death of his father, no longer so strictly bound to 
the neighborhood of his native country, he was free to 
follow the urgent advice of his physician to try the chances 
of health in a complete change of climate. Colorado 
seemed to offer the desired advantages, and, moreover, 
Stevenson's reputation in the United States made that 
country seem particularly attractive. 'Accordingly, in 
August, acompanied by his wife, his mother, and his step- 
son, Mr. Lloyd Osbourne, he set sail for New York. Far 
from displeased when, after leaving port, he discovered that 
he had taken passage in a cattle boat carrying a strange 
cargo of horses and apes, he made the best of the situation, 
and, with characteristic enthusiasm, enjo3^ed the experience 
*^to the mast-head." "We could really be a little at sea/' 



14 INTROD'UCTION 

he wrote, — "]\ry heart literally sang; I truly care for 
nothing so much as that.'' 

In New York he met with flattering evidences that his 
fame had preceded him, and he no douht could have spent 
more time there very pleasantly. But the condition of his 
health made it necessary for him to seek more favorable 
surroundings at once. Instead of going to Colorado, how- 
ever, as had been the original intention, the family de- 
cided to spend the winter in the Aclirondacks. Here, in a 
house on Saranac Lake, they remained from October until 
April. The climate, though intensely cold, proved on the 
whole favorable to Stevenson's health ; and, in a region that 
reminded him of his native Scotland, he was able to work 
to good purpose. He began The Master of Ballantrae and 
wrote besides a series of essays. Some of these, Pulvis et 
Umbra, The Lantern Bearers, and A Christmas Sermon, 
reveal the best of his characteristic powers in essay writing. 

In April came fresh plans. We have seen how Stevenson 
delighted in the sea. "The two uses of wealth," he had 
once written, "are to afford a yacht and a stringed quar- 
tette." The romance of the South Seas had long fascinated 
him, and a favorite amusement on winter nights at Saranac 
had been to plan a South Sea cruise. Wealth sufficient to 
charter a yacht was forthcoming in the form of a legacy 
from his father; besides, he had contracted with the Ameri- 
can publishers, Messrs. McClure, for a series of letters on 
his cruises, to be written if his health should be restored. 
In June, 188(S, he set sail with his family from San 
Francisco in the yacht Casco. Their course lay three thou- 
sand miles to the Marquesas, and thither for three weeks 
the Casco "ploughed her path of snow across the empty 
deep, far from all track of commerce, far from any hand 
of help." Stevenson's delight in the cruise was great, and 
the inliuence of the sea began to tell on his health for the 
better. 



INTKOIWCTION ) T) 

In late July, the Casco came to anchor in the harbor 
of Nukahiva, in the Marquesas. As the land was revealed 
to Stevenson with the coming of the dawn, there fell upon 
him the spell of tlie South Seas. "The first experience can 
never be repeated. The first love, the first sunrise, the 
first South Sea island, are moments apart, and touched a 
virginity of sense. . . . The land heaved up in peak^^ 
and rising vales; it fell in cliffs and buttresses; its colour 
ran through fifty modulations in a scale of pearl and rose 
and olive ; and it was crowned above with opalescent clouds. 
The schooner turned upon her heel; the anchor 
plunged. It was a small sound, a great event; my soul 
went down with these moorings whence no windlass may 
fetch it up; and I, and some part of my ship's company, 
were from that hour the bondslaves of the isles of 
Vivien." ^ 

Stevenson was not to see his own land again. After a 
three weeks' stay at Nukahiva he l)egan a series of cruises 
lasting more than two years. Now in the Casco, now in the 
trading vessels the Equator and the Janet Nicoll, he visited 
almost every important group of islands in the Eastern 
and Central Pacific. Traveling among peoples scarcely 
emerged from barbarism, he found them in many ways 
attractive and lovable, and through an uncommon power 
to enter into sympathy with native feeling, made many 
devoted friends among them. His tolerance towards the 
traditional customs and moral codes of the islanders 
enabled him to break down the barriers of reserve whicli 
stood between them and most foreigners, so that he was 
admitted into intimate relations with some of the chiefs. 
Men of all classes and interests, even the despised half- 
caste whites, found him kindly and courteous. 

During these cruises and the various sojourns that inter- 
rupted them — at Tahiti, Hawaii, or Samoa — the work of 

' The South Seas. 



16 INTEOD'UCTION 

writing went forward. At sea, he began The Wrecker, 
in collaboration with his stepson, and set about composing 
the long promised letters on his travels. At Honolulu, 
he completed The Master of Ballantrae and two ballads 
based on native life and legend. The Feast of Famine and 
The Song of Rahero. In Samoa he wrote The Bottle 
Imp, the first of his prose tales of South Sea life. 

In the meantime, he had become convinced that no other 
climate was so favorable to his health as that of the islands 
and the neighboring seas. In 1890, he purchased, near 
Apia, on the island of Upolu, Samoa, a tract of about four 
hundred acres, intending at first to make it a winter home 
and the base for further cruises. Twice he had made plan3 
to visit his own country and had gone some distance on 
the journey, but each time, falling sick, he had prolonged 
his stay. Finally, after a severe illness in Sidney, he gave 
up tiie hope of seeing Scotland again. Accordingly, in 
Xovember, he returned to x\pia, and set about the arduous 
labors of making the estate habitable. 

Upon this estate, to which he gave the name of Vailima 
(Five Rivers), Stevenson lived until his death. It stood 
about three miles from the coast, and six hundred feet 
above the sea. Behind it rose the slopes of Vaea Moun- 
tain, clothed with a dense growth of tropical forest. In 
these surroundings, at the head of a large household, which 
included, besides his immediate family, a number of native 
servants, or ^^boys," the exile lived in the relation of a 
Highland chief to his clan. Those sulgect to his authority 
he ruled kindly, yet very firmly, and won from them a 
strong devotion. 

His influence spread quickly beyond his own household; 
he was consulted, says his stepson, on every conceivable 
subject. Soon his interest in the natives involved him in 
local politics. Two officials appointed by the powers in 



INTROD'UCTION 17 

control of Samoan affairs — Gerinanv, England, and the 
United States — were clearly gnilty of unsympathetic and 
unjust dealings with the natives. The situation was further 
complicated by the rivalry of two claimants to the throne, 
the chiefs Malietoa Laupepa and Mataafa. Laupepa was 
supported by the representatives of the powers, and 
Mataafa, notwithstanding the strength of his claims, was 
forced to withdraw. In this troubled state of affairs 
Stevenson intervened. Whether his intervention was 
Judicious, has been doubted, l)ut his influence was wholly 
designed to further peace and to secure justice to the 
islanders. His protest against the misapplication of the 
trusts of office, published under the title A Footnote to 
HMory, brought about the recall of the two incompetent 
officials. But so strong was the resentment raised 
against him by this work that for a time he firmly believed 
lie was in danger of being deported.^ 

In spite of the many interruptions to which he was sub- 
ject, Stevenson's life in Samoa was, on the whole, more 
favorable to literary work than any he had yet enjoyed. 
His health, though suffering occasional lapses, was much 
improved ; consumption had definitely ceased. For two 
years, at least, he was able to work as he had never worked 
before. He would often begin at six in the morning, before 
the rest of the family were astir, and continue until noon ; 
at times he would labor all day long. Even in a year 
of relatively slight production (1891) he completed the 
letters on the South Seas and The Beach of Falesa, 
in his own opinion the first realistic South Sea story. The 
following year, despite the demand made upon his time 
and energy by A Footnote to History, he wrote David Bat- 
four, published Across the Plains, and undertook, besides a 

^For a full account of the Samoan troubles, see A Footnote to 
Eisiory. 



18 INTROD'UCTION 

life of his family, the writing of six different romances. 
Of these only the Ehb Tide, begun in collaboration with 
Mr. Lloyd Osbourne, was completed by Stevenson's own 
hand.^ 

But he had long been spending his strength too freely. 
There came a time of depression, when some of the friends 
to whom he wrote (he acknowledged no change of feeling 
to his family) could detect a flagging of the spirit that had 
so long sustained him. He gave expression to discontent 
with his own life and work, and even spoke of a premoni- 
tion of death. This depression, however, was followed by 
a renewal of the old time buoyancy and energy. As he 
worked upon Weir of Hermiston, he had a sense of powers 
as yet unrealized, an assurance that his greatest work 
was yet to come. But the death of which he had felt 
a premonition was near at hand. During the morning of 
December 3, 1894, he had worked hard on Hermiston. In 
the evening, while gayly talking with his wife, he fell at 
her feet, unconscious, and in a few hours he was dead. 

His death brought forth new tributes of the love and 
loyalty of the Samoans. Twice during his life he had had 
unusual evidence of this: once when a feast was given to 
him and his family such as had never been given to white 
people before ; again, and more touchingly, when a number 
of chiefs whose release he had secured from prison during 
the troubled political times, built a road for him with their 
own hands and called it "The Eoad of the Loving Hearts." 
Now, among those who sought to do him their last rever- 
ence, came one of these chiefs. "Behold !" he cried, "Tusi- 
tala^ is dead. We were in prison, and he cared for us. 

^Of the other five, Sopliia Scarlet, Heatliercat, The Young 
Chevalier, and TFeir of Hermiston remain in their unfinished form; 
St. Ives was completed by A. T. Qiiiller-Coueh, in 1897. 

-''The Teller of Tales" — the name the Samoans applied to 
Stevenson. 



INTKOD'UCTION 19^ 

We were sick, and he made us well. We were hungry^ and 
he fed us. The day was no longer than his kindness. You 
are a great people, and full of love. Yet who among you 
is so great as Tusitala ? Wliat is your love to his love ?'' 
The next morning a party of forty of the natives cut a 
path through the forest to the summit of Mt. Vaea, and 
• others dug the grave upon the narrow ledge that crowns 
; the height. Here, "under the wild and starry sky" ^ he 
I lies buried, his resting place marked by a simple tomb. 
I Stevenson's personality was many-sided, and a brief 
'. biographical sketch can not convey an adequate impression 
of the "spirit intense and rare" that exercised so strong a 
j fascination over his friends. Such a character eludes sum- 
[ mary, but if a single trait can be selected as representative, 
jit would seem to be the feeling and imagination of boy- 
hood still fresh and living in the man. Stevenson had 
an unusual power to recall in after years the senti- 
j ments and associations, as well as the happenings, of his 
I childhood. "And throughout his life," writes Mr. Balfour, 
I "for Stevenson to throw himself into any employment 
which would kindle his imagination was to see him trans- 
figured. ... He drove stray horses to the pound 
[this was at Vailima,] and it became a border foray. He 
held an inquiry into the theft of a pig, and he bore himself 
as if he were the Lord President of the Inner House." 

And so, too, certain natural objects which are charged 
with romantic suggestion to children never lost their power 
to move him. 

*'It is thus that tracts of young fir, and low rocks that reach 
into deep soundings, particularly torture and delight me. Some- 
thing must have happened in such places, and perhaps ages back 
to members of my race; and when I was a child I tried in vain to 
invent appropriate games for them, as I still try, just as vainly, to 
fit them with a proper story. Some places speak distinctly. Cer- 

-Eequiem in Underivoods. This poem of Stevenson 's is inscribed 
on the monument. 



20 IXTEODUCTTON 

tain 'lark gardens cry aloud for murder; certain old houses demand 
to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwreck.''^ 

In this spirit of imaginative child's pla}-, the ready 
response to the influences that quicken the fancies of youth, 
lies much of the secret of Stevenson's charm as a writer for 
young people. 

Over against this essential spirit of boyishness, for a 
balance of character, was a counterweight of moral serious- 
ness and of genuine religious feeling. "The word must 
return," Stevenson once wrote to Sidney Colvin, "to the 
word duty. There are no rewards, and plenty of duties. 
And the sooner a man sees that and acts upon it like a 
gentleman or a fine old barbarian, the better for himself." 
And so again, in Songs of Travel: 

' ' Wanted Volunteers 
To do their best for twoscore years! 
A ready soldier, here I stand 
Primed for Thy command, 
With burnished sword. ' ' 

The character of his religious faith, and its relation to 
his daily life, are reflected in the prayers composed at 
Vailima. 

FOR GRACE. 

''Grant that we here before Thee may be set free from the 
fear of vicissitude and the fear of death, may finish what remains 
before us of our course without dishonour to ourselves or hurt to 
others, and when the day comes, may die in peace. Deliver us 
from fear and favour, from mean hopes and from cheap pleasures. 
Have mercy on each in his deficiency; let him not be cast down; 
support the stumblers on the way, and give at last rest to the 
weai'y. ' ' 

Stevenson's position in the history of nineteenth century 
literature is a striking one. That he was "the most inter- 
esting and brilliant by far of those English writers whose 
life is comprised in the last half of the century,"^ is a judg 

'^Ilemories and Portraits: A gossip on a Novel of Dumas. 
"iSaintsbury : A Histonj of Nineteenth Century Literature, 



INTEOD'UCTION o]^ 

ment in which one may readily acquiesce, if only on the 
ground of the general quality and scoj^e of his work, and 
the stamp which it bears of an unusual and charming 
personality. His poetry, which is not, to be sure, of the 
best, and which often lacks his characteristic fitness and 
finish of phrase, has nevertheless found many approving 
readers; and his essays, even though, when critical, they 
show the want of the broadest sympathy and the soundest 
judgment, are delightfully graceful, fresh, and stimulating. 
But apart from all these qualities, Stevenson has another 
claim to consideration : he most fully represents, and most 
strongly influenced, the return to the spirit of romantic 
adventure in fiction. For a generation before his stories 
began to catch the attention of the public, romance, 
almost entirely supplanted since the waning of Scott's 
influence by the realistic novel of ordinary life, had f@r 
the most part been neglected by the more important writers 
and more critical readers alike. The enthusiastic welcome 
given to Treasure Island and the stories published by Ste- 
venson during the next decade, if it revealed the natural 
reaction already going on in public taste, revealed also the 
sufficiency of the authors powers to stimulate and satisfy 
the new demand. Writing in accordance with a definite 
literary creed,^ in opposition to literary methods firmly 
established, he produced stories in strong contrast to 
the realism so long dominant. The life they deal with, 
though often real enough in its essence, is a life of un- 
usual circumstance, filled with exciting action, mystery, 
and tragic menace. The characters are conceived in the 
spirit of the world they move in. Broadly delineated, with- 
out subtlety or minute analysis, they reveal such traits as 
are called forth by the circumstances that confront them — ■ 
motives and passions easily perceived on a stage of action. 
They are far from being mere puppets moved by the author 

iSee A Gossip on Bomance and A Humhle Bemonstrance. 



22 INTROD'UCTION 

throiigli a tangle of eventSj or mere personifications of the 
qualities assigned to them ; they impress with a sense of 
living personality. 

Besides acting as a strong influence in restoring popular- 
ity and vitality to a neglected literary form, Stevenson is 
specially notable for anotlier achievement. The great 
writers of romantic fiction who preceded him, — Scott, for 
example, — had lacked perfection, or even superior finish of 
style. This superior finish, if not perfection, Stevenson 
had acquired. But style in his hands is something more 
than an added adornment which the work of his predeces- 
sors lacked. It is, on the whole, despite certain faults and 
afi^ectations that must be admitted, a manner of expression 
so flexible and various, and so thoroughly at his command, 
that he can make it take oh life and color in accordance 
with the spirit of what he is writing, can key the whole 
tone of it to the whole tone of his subject. It is in this 
sense that he merits the distinction, among writers in 
English, of having imparted the final grace to the story- 
tellei-'s art. 

II 

AN INLAND VOYAGE AND TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

An Inland Voyage, published in 1878, was Stevenson's 
first book; Travels ivitli a Donl-ey, published the following 
year, his third. These volumes are, in a sense, representa- 
tive of a considerable amount of the authors earlier work. 
Indeed, essays and descriptive records of his travels form 
the bulk of his writing from 1873, the date of Roads, until 
after the publication of Treasure Island. And though his 
final great achievement lies in the field of romance,^ yet 
the work of this other sort, if less important, is hardly less 
characteristic. 

Neither book made much impression upon the pub- 
lic at the time of its appearance, though each won very 



INTKODUCTION" 23 

favoraljle comment from the reviews. The author's own 
criticism of the Voyage was that it ''w as n ot hadl}^ written^ 
tliin^ nildly cheery a n(i_s,tralned/' Of both books* he said, 
later in life, "that, though the}' contained nothing but fresh 
air and a certain style, they were good of their kind, and 
possessed a simplicity of treatment which afterwards he 
thought had passed out of his reach. "^ 

"Fresh air and a certain style'' — the phrase is sug- 
gestive. Both books show a striking quality — likewise 
present in the tales and romahccs^^the power of language 
to reproduce, notjhe. form and_ color merely, Init the very 
atniospILere . of the scene. As one reads, it is as if the 
senses had been appealed to directly and not through the 
form of words. One feels the very genius of the place. One 
can scarcely read this passage, for example, without the 
sensation of being actually with Stevenson among the pines : 

**The stars were clear, colored, and jewel-like, but not frosty. 
A faint silvery vapor stood for the Milky Way. All around me 
the black fir-points stood upright and stock-still. By the white- 
ness of the pack-saddle, I could see Modestine walking round and 
round at the length of her tether; I could hear her steadily munch- 
ing at the sward ; but there was not another sound, save the inde- 
scribable quiet talk of the runnel over the stones. I lay lazily 
smoking and studying the color of the sky, as we call the void of 
space, from where it showed a reddish gray behind the pines to 
where it showed a glossy blue-black between the stars. As if to 
be more like a pedlar, I wear a silver ring. This I could see 
faintly shining as I raised or lowered the cigarette; and at each 
whiff the inside of my hand was illuminated, and became for a 
second the highest light in the landscape. 

''A faint wind, more like a moving coolness than a stream of 
air, passed down the glade from time to time; so that even in my 
great chamber the air was being renewed all night. ' ' 

And so, repeatedly, though the descriptions are not al- 
ways so full or closely wrought, one gets the sense of be- 
ing in the very place : one travels, not in the author's pages, 
but by his side. 
* Balfour 's Life. 



24 INTEODUCTION 

For the rest, one finds the charm of style as style — 
sometimes too self-conscious — which moves smoothly- on 
from page to page in happy phrase and graceful sentenci' ; 
kindly and humorous observation of character and man- 
ners; quiet meditations by the way, sometimes iresh 
and engaging, not always quite spontaneous, never too pro- 
found, — the musings of the philosophic vagabond. 

Ill 

CHRONOLOGY 

1850 Stevenson born, November 13, at 8 Howard Place, 
Edinburgh. 

1858-1867 At school. 

1867 Enters the University of Edinburgh. 

1871 Abandons the study of engineering and begins to 
study law; contributes to the Edinburgh Univer- 
sity Magazine. 

1873 Publishes a paper entitled Roads in the Portfolio, — 
his first contribution to a regular periodical; 
spends the winter on the Riviera to restore his 
health. 

1875 Passes his final examination in law and is admitted 

to the bar of Scotland ; makes the first of a num- 
ber of visits to the neighborhood of Fontainebleau. 

1876 Stevenson and Sir Walter Simpson make the canoe 

trip in Belgium and France recorded in An In- 
land Voyage; Stevenson begins the essays after- 
wards collected in Virginihns Puerisque and Fa- 
miliar Studies of Men and Books. 

1877 Stevenson publishes his first s^tory, A Lodging for 

the Night. 

1878 Stevenson takes the walking tour through tlie 

Cevennes recorded in Travels luith a Donkey; pul)- 
lishes his first book, An Inland Voyage. 



INTEOD'UCTTON 25 

1879 Publishes Travels iv'dli a Donlrij; sails in June for 

America. 

1880 Marries Fanny Van cle Grift (Mrs. Osbourne) in 

San Francisco on May 19 ; returns in August to 

Scotland. 
1880-1885 Stevenson and his wife living in various places 

in Scotland or on the Continent. 
1882 Treasure Island; Netv Arabian Nights. 
1885-1887 The Stevensons at Bournemouth. A Child's 

Garden of Verses. 

1886 Dr. Jel-yll and Mr. Hyde; Kidnapped; The Merry 

Men. 

1887 Thomas Stevenson dies; the Stevensons go to Amer- 

ica and spend the winter in the Adirondacks. 
Undenvoods. 

1888 In June the Stevensons set sail in the Casco for tlio 

Marquesas. 
1888-1890 The South Sea cruises. 

1889 The Master of Ballantrae. 

1890 In November, the Stevensons begin their permanent 

residence at Vailima. Ballads. 
1891-1893 The Samoan troubles. 

1892 A Footnote to History. 

1893 David Balfour (Catriona). 

1894 Stevenson dies December 3. 

IV 

A BEIEF BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The Worl's of Robert Louis Stevenson. Twenty-five vol- 
umes. Charles Scribners Sons. 

The Thistle Edition. Twenty-four volumes. Sold only 
by subscription. By the same publishers. The standard 
American edition. 



2G INTROD'UCTION 

Edition cle Luxe. The Greenock Press. 

The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson. Graham Balfour. 
Two volumes. Scri])ners. The standard biography. 

TJie Letters of Rohert Louis Stevenson. Edited by Sid- 
ney Colvin. Two volumes. Scribners. 

Vailima Letters. Edited by Sidney Colvin. Two vol- 
umes. Scribners. 

Rohert Louis Stevenson. T. Cope Cornford. Dodd, Mead 
and Company. This, and the two follow^ing, are brief, one- 
volume lives. 

Rohert Louis Stevenson. (Famous Scots Series.) Mar- 
garet M. Black. Scribners. 

Roher^t Louis Stevenson. A Life in Criticism. H. B«l- 
lyse Baildon. A. Wessels & Co. 

Stevenson, Rohert Louis. Sidney Colvin. A brief sketch 
in The Dictionary of National Biography. 

Rohert Louis Stevenson. Walter Ealeigh. Edwin Ar- 
nold. An appreciation. 

Stevenson 8 Attitude Toward Life. J. F. Genung. 
Thomas Y. Crowell. 

In the Track of R. L. Stevenson and Elsewhere in Old 
France. J. A. Hammerton. E. P. Button & Co. Contains 
one chapter on An Inland Voyage and one on Travels with 
a Donkey, and is freely illustrated with photographs of the 
scenes of Stevenson's journeys. 

See also essays and comments on Stevenson by Henry 
James in Partial Portraits; J. J. Chapman, in Emerson 
and Other Essays : J. M. Barrie, in An Edinhurgh Eleven; 
Edmund Gosse, in Questions at Issue and Critical Kit- 
Kats; and the various magazine articles accessible through 
the indexes to periodical literature. 



AUTHOE'S PREFACE 

To equip so small a book witli a preface is, I am half 
afraid, to sin against proportion. But a preface is more 
than an author can resist, for it is the reward of his labors. 
When the foundation stone is laid, the architect appears 
with his plans, and struts for an hour before the public eye. 
So with the writer in his preface : he may have never a word 
to say, but he must show himself for a moment in the por- 
tico, hat in hand, and with an urbane demeanor. 

It is best, in such circumstance, to represent a delicate 
shade of manner between humility and superiority : as if 
the book had been written by some one else, and you had 
merely run over it and inserted what was good. But for 
my part I have not yet learned the trick to that perfection ; 
I am not yet able to dissemble the warmth of my senti- 
ments towards a reader ; and if I meet him on the thresh- 
old, it is to invite him in with country cordiality. 

To say truth, I had no sooner finished reading this lit- 
tle book in proof than I was seized upon by a distressing 
apprehension. 

It occurred to me that I might not only be the first to 
read these pages, but the last as well; that I might have 
pioneered this very smiling tract of country all in vain, 
and find not a soul to follow my steps. The more I 
thought, the more I disliked the notion; until the distaste 
grew into a sort of panic terror, and I rushed into this 
Preface, which is no more than an advertisement for read- 
ers. 

What am I to say for my book? Caleb and Joshua^ 

1 Calch (nul Joshua. See Xumhcrs XIII. 

27 



28 ■ AUTHOR'S PREFACE 

brought back from Palestine a formidable Imncli of grapes ; 
alas ! my book produces naught so nourishing ; and for the 
matter of that, we live in an age when people prefer a 
definition to any quantity of fruit. 

I wonder, would a negative be found enticing? For, 
from the negative point of view, I flatter myself this vol- 
ume has a certain stamp. Although it runs to consid- 
erably upwards of two hundred pages, it contains not a 
single reference to the imbecility of God's universe, nor 
so much as a single hint that I could have made a l)etter 
one myself, — I really do not know where my head can have 
been. I seemed to have forgotten all that makes it glo- 
rious to be man. 'Tis an omission that renders tlie book 
philosophically unimportant ; but I am in hopes the eccen- 
tricity may please in frivolous circles. 

To the friend who accompanied me I owe many thanks 
already, indeed I wish I owed him nothing else ; Ijut at this 
moment I feel towards him an almost exaggerated tender- 
ness. He, at least, will become my reader, — if it were 
only to follow his own travels alongside of mine. 

E. L. S. 



AN INLAND VOYAGE 



An Inland Voyage. The voyage was made from Antwerp, in Belgium, 
to a point on the French frontier near Maubeuge, and thence through 
France to Pointoise, a town seventeen miles northwest of Paris. 

"The inhabitants of Belgium are composed of two distinct races, 
almost as different from each other in racial characteristics as are 
the Germans from the French. The northern provinces, bordering 
mainly on the North Sea, are inhabited by the Flemings, a sturdy, 
blue-eyed, fair-haired people of Teutonic origin, somewhat akin to the 
Dutch. In fact, the language spoken by them closely resembles that 
of Holland, and the Dutch and Flemish read each other's newspapers, 
although they cannot very well understand each other's conversation. 
In this portion of Belgium — which constitutes the real Flanders — are 
located the interesting old cities, Bruges and Ghent, as well as the 
great seaport, Antwerp. . . . 

"In southern Belgium, however, which is the manufacturing part 
of the kingdom, lives an entirely different people, known as the Wal- 
loons. They are the descendants of the Gauls, and are, as a rule, of 
a high-strung, nervous temperament, with dark complexions and lively 
dispositions, like the French. These people speak not only French, 
but a dialect of the French language, known as the Walloon, which 
more closely resembles the old prorenqal of southern France than does 
the modern French itself." — John L. Stoddard. 



AN INLAND VOYAGE 



ANTWERP TO BOOM 

We made a great stir in Antwerp Docks. A stevedore 
and a lot of dock porters took up the two canoes, and ran 
with them for the slip. A crowd of children followed cheer- 
ing. The Cigarette'^ went otf in a splash and a bubble of 
small breaking water. Next moment the Arethusa was after 
her. A steamer was coming down, men on the paddle- 
box shouted hoarse warnings, the stevedore and his porters 
were bawling from the qua3^ But in a stroke or two the 
canoes were away out in the middle of the Scheldt, and all 
steamers, and stevedores, and other 'long-shore vanities were 
left behind. 

The sun shone brightly ; the tide was making — four jolly 
miles an hour; the wind Ijlew steadily, with occasional 
squalls. For my part, I had never been in a canoe under 
sail in my life; and my first experiment out in the mid- 
dle of this big river was not made without some trepida- 
tion. What would liappen when the wind first caught my 
little canvas ? I suppose it was almost as trying a venture 
into the regions of the unknown as to publish a first book, 
or to marry. But my doubts were not of long duration; 

1 The Cigarette. The name designates also the companion of Steven- 
son's voyage. Sir Walter Simpson. "He was of slow fighting mind." 
Stevenson writes of him in the unfinished AutohiOfjraphn. "You would 
see him, at times, wrestle for a minute at a time with a refractory 
jost. and perhaps fail to throw it at the end. I think his special 
character was profound shyness, a shyness which was not so mucli 
exhibited in society as it ruled in his own dealings \>nth himself. He 
was shy of his own virtues and talents, and above all of the former. 
He was even ashamed of his own sincere desire to do the right." 

31 



S2 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

anci in five minutes you will not be surprised to learn that 
I had tied my sheet. 

I own I was a little struck by this circumstance myself; 
of course, in company with the rest of my fellow-men, I 
had always tied the sheet in a sailing-boat; but in so little 
and crank a concern as a canoe, and with these charging 
squalls, I was not prepared to find myself follow the same 
principle ; and it inspired me with some contemptuous views 
of our regard for life. It is certainly easier to smoke with 
the sheet fastened ; but I had never before weighed a com- 
fortable pipe of to1)acco against an obvious risk, and gravely 
elected for the comfortable pipe. It is a commonplace, that 
we cannot answer for ourselves before we have been tried. 
But it is not so common a reflection, and surely more con- 
soling, that we usually find ourselves a great deal braver 
and better than we thought. I believe this is every one's 
experience : but an apprehension that they may l^elie them- 
selves in the future prevents mankind from trumpeting this 
cheerful sentiment abroad. I wish sincerely, for it would 
have saved me much trouble, there had been some one to 
put me in a good heart al:»out life when I was younger; to 
tell me how dangers are most portentous on a distant sight ; 
and how the good in a nu^n's spirit will not suffer itself to 
be overlaid, and rarely or never deserts him in the hour of 
need. But we are all for tootling on the sentimental flute 
in literature ; and not a man among us will go to the head 
of the march to sound the heady drums. 

It was agreeable upon the river. A barge or two went 
past laden with hay. Eeeds and willows bordered the 
stream ; and cattle and gray, venerable horses came and 
hung their mild heads over the embankment. Here and 
there was a pleasant village among trees, with a noisy ship- 
ping yard; here and there a villa in a lawn. The wind 
served us well up the Scheldt and thereafter up the I^upel ; 
and we were running pretty free when we began to sight 



ANTWEEP TO BOOM 33 

the l)rickrards of Boom, lying for a loDg way on the right 
bank of the river. The left bank was still green and pas- 
toral, with alleys of trees along the embankment, and here 
and there a flight of steps to serve a ferry, where perhaps 
there sat a woman with her elbows on her knees, or an 
old gentleman with a staff and silver spectacles. But Boom 
and its brickyards grew smokier and shabbier with every 
minute; until a great church with a clock, and a wooden 
bridge over the river, indicated the central quarters of the 
town. 

Boom is not a nice place, and is only remarkable for one 
thing : that the majority of the inhabitants have a private 
opinion that they can speak English, which is not justified 
by fact. This gave a kind of haziness to our intercourse. 
As for the Hotel de la Xavigation, I think it is the worst 
feature of the place. It boasts of a sanded parlor, with a 
bar at one end, looking on the street; and another sanded' 
parlor, darker and colder, with an empty bird-cage and a 
tricolor subscription box by way of sole* adornment, where 
we made shift to dine in the company of three uncommu- 
nicative engineer apprentices and a silent bagman.^ The 
food, as usual in Belgium, was of a nondescript occasional 
character ; indeed I have never been able to detect anything 
in the nature of a meal among this pleasing people ; they 
seem to peck and trifle with viands all day long in an 
amateur spirit : tentatively French, truly German, and 
somehow falling between the two. 

The empty bird-cage, swept and garnished, and with no 
trace of the old piping favorite, save where two wires had 
been pushed apart to hold its lump of sugar, carried with 
it a sort of graveyard cheer. The engineer apprentices 
would, have nothing to say to us, nor indeed to the bagman ; 
but talked low and sparingly to one another, or raked us 

^hof/waiK In England, a somewhat contemptuous name for a 
commoi'cial traveler. 



34 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

in the gaslight- with a gleam of spectacles. For though 
handsome lads, they were all (in the Scotch phrase) bar- 
nacled. 

There was an English maid in the hotel, who had been 
long enough out of England to pick up all sorts of funny- 
foreign idioms, and all sorts of curious foreign ways, which 
need not here be specified. She spoke to us very fluently 
in her jargon, asked us information as to the manners of 
the present day in England, and obligingly corrected us 
when we attempted to answer. But as we Avere dealing with 
a woman, perhaps our information was not so much thrown 
away as it appeared. The sex likes to pick up knowledge 
and yet preserve its superiority. It is good policy, and al- 
most necessary in the circumstances. If a man finds a 
woman admires him, were it only for his acquaintance with 
geogTaph}^ he will begin at once to build upon the admira- 
tion. It is only by unintermittent snubbing that the pretty 
ones can keep us in our place. Men, as Miss Howe or Miss 
Harlowe^ would have said, "are such encroachers." For 
my part, I am body and soul with the women; and after 
a well-married couple, there is nothing so beautiful in the 
world as the myth of the divine huntress. It is no use for 
a man to take to the woods ; we know him ; Anthony tried 
the same thing long ago,^ and had a pitiful time of it by 
all accounts. But there is this about some women, which 
overtops the best gymnosophist^ among men, that they suf- 
fice to themselves, and can walk in a high and cold zone 
without the countenance of any trousered being. I declare, 
although the reverse of a professed ascetic, I am more 
obliged to women for this ideal than I should be to the ma- 

'^Miss Hoice or Miss Harlowe. Characters in Samuel Richardson's 
Clarissa Harlowe. 

-Anthony tried the same thing, etc. Saint Anthony, horn in the 
middle of the third century. Devoting himself to an ascetic life, he 
retired into solitude. Hero the devil (so he helieved) appeared to him 
in a variety of alluring and terrible forms. 

^ fjifmnosophist. One of a sect of ancient Hindu philosophers who 
were devoted to rigid asceticism. 



ON THE WILLEBROEK CANAL 35 

jority of tlicni, or indeed to any but one, for a spontaneous 
kiss. There is notliing so encouraging as the spectacle of 
self-sufficienc}^ And when I think of the slim and lovely 
maidens, running the woods all night to the note of Diana's^ 
horn; moving among the old oaks, as fancy-free as they; 
things of the forest and the starlight, not touched by the 
commotion of man^s hot and turbid life — although there 
are plenty other ideals that I should prefer — I find my 
heart beat at the thought of this one. 'Tis to fail in life, 
but to fail with what a grace ! That is not lost which is 
not regretted. And where — here slips out the male — where 
would be much of the glory of inspiring love, if there were 
no contempt to overcome ? 



ON THE WILLEBEOEK CANAL 

Xext morning, when we set forth on the Willebroek Ca- 
nal, the rain began heavy and chill. The water of the 
canal stood at about the drinking temperature of tea ; and. 
under this cold aspersion,- the surface was covered with 
steam. The exhilaration of departure, and the easy motion 
of the boats under each stroke of the paddles, supported 
us through this misfortune while it lasted; and when the 
cloud passed and the sun came out again, our spirits went 
up above the range of stay-at-home humors. A good breeze 
rustled and shivered in the rows of trees that bordered the 
canal. The leaves flickered in and out of the light in tu- 
multuous masses. It seemed sailing weather to eye and 
ear ; Ijut down between the banks, the wind reached us only 
in faint and desultory puffs. There was hardly enough 

''-Diana's horn. Diana, the divine huntress, was a virgin goddess 
wlio lived in lier forest haunts aloof from men. The "slim" and lovely 
niaidens" were her nymphs, who accompanied her in the chase. 

^aspersion. Here u.sed in the sense of sprinkling. (Latin, asper- 
gere — aspersus : to sprinkle.) 



36 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

to steer by. Progress was intermittent and unsatisfactory. 
A jocular person, of marine antecedents, hailed us from the 
tow-path with a "C'est vite, rnais cest long.'"^ 

The canal was busy enough. Every now and then we 
met or overtook a long string of boats, with great green 
tillers; high sterns with a window on either side of the 
rudder, and perhaps a jug or a flower-pot in one of the 
windows ; a dingy following behind ; a woman busied about 
the day's dinner, and a handful of children. These barges 
were all tied one behind the other with tow ropes, to the 
number of twenty-live or thirty; and the line was headed 
and kept in motion by a steamer of strange construction. 
It had neither paddle-wheel nor screw; but by some gear 
not rightly comprehensible to the unmechanical mind, it 
fetched up over its bow a small bright chain which lay 
along the bottom of the canal, and paying it out again over 
the stern, dragged itself forward, link by link, with its 
whole retinue of loaded scows. Until one had found out 
the key to the enigma, there was something solemn and 
uncomfortable in the progress of one of these trains, as it 
moved gently along the water with nothing to mark its 
advance but an eddy alongside dying away into the wake. 

Of all the creatures of commercial enterprise, a canal 
barge is by far the most delightful to consider. It may 
spread its sails, and then you see it sailing high above 
the tree-tops and the wind-mill, sailing on the aqueduct, 
sailing through the green cornlands : the most picturesque 
of things amphibious. Or the horse plods along at a foot- 
pace as if there were no such thing as business in the 
world; and the man dreaming at the tiller sees the same 
spire on the horizon all day long. It is a mystery how 
things ever get to their destination at this rate; and to 
see the barges waiting their turn at a lock, affords a fine 
lesson of how easily the world may be taken. There should 

1 "Cest lite, mais c'cst long.'' "It's swift, but it's long." 



ON THE WILLEBROEK CAXAL 3; 

l)e many contented spirits on ])oar(l, for such a life is l)otli 
to travel and to stay at home. 

The chimney smokes for dinner as you go alonu" : the 
banks of the canal slowly unroll their scenery to contempla- 
tive eyes; the barge floats by great forests and through 
great cities with their public buildings and their lamps at 
night ; and for the bargee, in his floating home, ''traveling 
abed/' it is merely as if he were listening to another man's 
story or turning the leaves of a picture book in which he 
had no concern. He may take his afternoon walk in some 
foreign country on the banks of the canal, and then come 
home to dinner at his own fireside. 

There is not enough exercise in such a life for any high 
measure of health ; Imt a high measure of health is only 
necessary for unhealthy people. The slug of a fellow, who 
is never ill nor well, has a quiet time of it in life, and 
dies all the easier. 

I am sure I would rather l)e a bargee than occupy any 
position under Heaven that required attendance at an of- 
fice. There are few callings, I should say, where a man 
gives up less of his liberty in return for regular meals. The 
])argee is on shipboard ; he is master in his own ship : he can 
land whenever he will ; he can never be kept beating ofl^ a. 
lee-shore a whole frosty night when the sheets are as hard 
as iron ; and so far as I can make out, time stands as nearly 
still with him as is compatible with the return of bedtime 
or the dinner-hour. It is not easy to see why a Ijargeo 
should ever die. 

Half-way between Willebroek and Villevorde, in a beau- 
tiful reach of canal like a squire's avenue, we went ashore 
to lunch. There were two eggs, a junk of bread, and a 
bottle of wine on board the Aretliusa ; and two eggs and an 
Etna cooking apparatus on board the Cigarette. The mas- 
ter of the latter boat smashed one of the eggs in the course 
of disembarkation; but observing pleasantly that it might 



38 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

still be cooked a la papier, lie dropped it into the Etna, 
in its covering of Flemish newspaper. We landed in a 
blink of fine weather; but we had not been two minutes 
ashore before the wind freshened into half a gale, and the 
rain began .to patter on our shoulders. We sat as close 
about the Etna as we could. The spirits burned with great 
ostentation; the grass caught flame every minute or two, 
and had to be trodden out; and before long there were 
several burnt fingers of the party. But the solid quantity 
of cookery accomplished was out of proportion with so 
much display ; and when we desisted, after two applications 
of the fire, the sound Qgg was a little more than loo-warm ;^ 
and as for a la papier, it was a cold and sordid fricassee of 
printer's ink and broken egg-shell. AYe made shift to roast 
the other two by putting them close to the burning spirits, 
and that with better success. And then we uncorked the 
bottle of wine, and sat down in a ditch with our canoe 
aprons over our knees. It rained smartl}^ Discomfort, 
when it is honestly uncomfortable and makes no nauseous 
pi-etensions to the contrary, is a vastly humorous business : 
and people well steeped and stupefied in the open air are 
in a good vein for laughter. From this point of view, 
even egg a la papier ofl'ered by way of food may pass mus- 
ter as a sort of accessory to the fun. But this manner of 
jest, although it may be taken in good part, does not in- 
vite repetition ; and from that time forward the Etna voy- 
aged like a gentleman in the locker of the Cigarette. 

It is almost unnecessaiT to mention that when lunch was 
over and we got aboard again and made sail, the wind 
promptly died away. The rest of the journey to Villevorde 
we still spread our canvas to the unfavoring air, and with 
now and then a puff, and now and then a spell of paddling, 
drifted along from lock to lock Ijetween the orderly trees. 

'^loo-warm. Irregular spelling for lew-warm (=luke-warm) ; Century 
Dictionary. 



ON THE WILLEBROEK CANAL 39 

It was a fine, green, fat landscape, or rather a mere 
green water-lane going on from village to village. Things 
had a settled look, as in places long lived in. Crop-headed 
children spat upon us from the hridges as we went below, 
with a true conservative feeling. But even more conserva- 
tive were the fishermen, intent upon their floats, who let 
us go by without one glance. They perched upon sterlings 
and buttresses and along the slope of the embankment, 
gently occupied. They were indifferent like pieces of dead 
nature. They did not move any more than if they had been 
fishing in an old Dutch print. The leaves fluttered, the 
water lapped, but they continued in one stay, like so many 
churches established by law. You might have trepanned 
every one of their innocent heads and found no more than 
so much coiled fishing line below their skulls. I do not 
care for your stalwart fellows in India-rubber stockings 
breasting up mountain torrents with a salmon rod ; but I 
do dearly love the class of man who plies his unfruitful art 
forever and a day by still and depopulated waters. 

At the lock just beyond Villevorde there was a lock mis- 
tress who spoke French comprehensibly, and told us we 
were still a couple of leagues from Brussels. At the same 
place the rain began again. It fell in straight, parallel 
lines, and the surface of the canal was thrown up into an 
infinity of little crystal fountains. There were no beds to 
be had in the neighborhood. Nothing for it but to lay the 
sails aside and address ourselves to steady paddling in the 
rain. 

Beautiful country houses, with clocks and long lines of 
shuttered windows, and fine old trees standing in groves 
and avenues, gave a rich and sombre aspect in the rain 
and the deepening dusk to the shores of the canal. I seem 
to have seen something of the same effect in engravings : 
opulent landscapes, deserted and overhung with the pas- 
sasfe of storm. And throuo-hout wc had the escort of a 



40 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

hooded cart, which trotted shabbily along the tow-path, 
and kept at an almost uniform distance in our wake. 



THE ROYAL SPORT NAUTIQUE 

The ram took off near Laeken. But the sun was already 
down; the air was chill; and we had scarcely a dry stitch 
between tbe pair of us. Nay, now we found ourselves near 
the end of the Allee Verte/ and on the very threshold of 
Brussels we were confronted by a serious difficulty. The 
shores were closely lined by canal boats waiting their turn 
at the lock. Nowhere was there any convenient landing 
place; nowhere so much as a stal)le-yard to leave the canoes 
in for the night. We scrambled ashore and entered an 
estaminet^ where some sorry fellows were drinking with the 
landlord. The landlord was pretty round with us ; he knew 
of no coach-house or stable-yard, nothing of the sort ; and 
seeing we had come with no mind to drink, he did not 
conceal his impatience to be rid of us. One of the sorry 
fellows' "came to the rescue. Somewhere in the corner of 
the basin there was a slip, he informed us, and something 
else besides, not very clearly defined by him, but hopefully 
construed by his hearers. 

Sure enough there was the slip in the corner of the 
basin ; and at the top of it two nice-looking lads in boating 
clothes. The Arethusa addressed himself to these. One 
of them said there would be no difficulty about a night's 
lodging for our boats; and the other, taking a cigarette 
from his lips, inquired if they were made by Searle & Son. 
The name was quite an introduction. Half a dozen other 
young men came out of a boat-house bearing the super- 

^ Allee Verte (Green Lane). A double avenue of limes extending- 
along the Willebroeck canal. 

2 estaminet. A coffee house and smoking room. 



THE ROYAL SPORT NAUTIQUE 41 

scription Eoyal Sport Xautique, and joined in the talk. 
They were all very polite, voluble, and enthusiastic ; and 
their discourse was interlarded with English boating terms, 
and the names of English boat-builders and Englisli clubs. 
I do not know, to m}- shame, an}- spot in my native land 
where I should have been so warmly received b}^ the same 
number of people. AVe were English boating-men, and the 
Belgian boating-men fell upon our necks. I wonder if 
French Huguenots^ were as cordially greeted by English 
Protestants when they came across the Channel out of great 
tribulation. But, after all, what religion knits people so 
closely as common sport ? 

The canoes were carried into the Ijoat-house; they were 
washed down for us by the club servants, the sails were 
hung out to dry, and everything made as snug and tidy as 
a picture. And in the mean while we were led up-stairs 
by our new-found ])rethren, for so more than one of them 
stated the relationship, and made free of their lavatory. 
This one lent us soap, that one a towel, a third and fourth 
helped us to undo our bags. And all the time such ques- 
tions, such assurances of respect and sympathy ! I declare 
I never knew what glory was before. 

"Yes, yes, the Eoyal Sport Nautique is the oldest club in 
Belgium.'' 

"We number two hundred." 

"We" — this is not a substantive speech, but an abstract 
of many speeches, -the impression left upon my mind vafter 
a great deal of talk; and very youthful, pleasant, natural, 
and patriotic it seems to me to be — "We have gained all 
races, except those where we were cheated by the French." 

"You must leave all your wet things to be dried." 



^French Hufjuenots and English Protestants. The Huguenots were 
the Protestants of France. Many of them were slaughtered at the 
Massacre of St. Bartholomew (August, 1J572). Later persecutions 
drove hundreds of thousands into exile, many across the Channel to 
England. 



42 AN INLAND YOYAGK 

"0 ! entre freresl'^ In any boat-house in England we 
should find the same." (I cordially hope they might.) 

''En Angleterre, voiis empJoijez des sliding-seats, nest-ce 
2ms f " 

"We are all emplo3^ed in commerce during the day; but 
in the evening, voyez-vous, nous sommes serieux/'^ 

These were the words. They were all employed over the 
frivolous mercantile concerns of Belgium during the day; 
but in the evening they found some hours for the serious 
concerns of life. I may have a wrong idea of wisdom, but 
I think that was a very wise remark. People connected 
"with literature and philosophy are busy all their days in 
getting rid of second-hand notions and false standards. It 
is their profession, in the sweat of their brows, by dogged 
thinking, to recover their old fresh view of life, and dis- 
tinguish what they really and originally like from what 
they have only learned to tolerate perforce. And these 
Eoyal Xautical Sportsmen had the distinction still quite 
legible in their hearts. They had still those clean per- 
ceptions of what is nice and nasty, what is interesting and 
what is dull, which envious old gentlemen refer to as illu- 
sions. The nightmare illusion of middle age, the bear's 
hug of custom gradually squeezing the life out of a man's 
soul, had not yet begun for these happy-stai-'d young Bel- 
gians. They still knew that the interest they took in their 
business was a trifling afl'air compared to their spontaneous, 
long-suffering afi^ection for nautical sports. To know what 
you prefer, instead of humbly saying Amen to what the 
world tells you you ought to prefer, is to have kept your 
soul alive. Such a man may be generous; he may l)e 
honest in something more than the commercial sense ; he 
may love his friends with an elective, personal sympath}', 

1 "Entre frerefi." "Among brothers." 

^"En Anglcfcrre," etc. "In England you use sliding seats, do you 
not V" 

^ "vojjcz-roiis.'' etc. — "You see, we are serious.'" 



THE ROYAL SPOET XAUTIQUE 43 

and not accept them as an adjunct of the station to which 
he has heen called. He may be a man, in short, acting on 
his own instincts, keeping in his own shape that God made 
him in ; and not a mere crank in the social engine house, 
welded on principles that he does not understand, and for 
purposes that he does not care for. 

For will any one dare to tell me that business is more 
entertaining than fooling among boats? He must have 
never seen a boat, or never seen an office, who says so. 
And for certain the one is a great deal better for the health. 
There should be nothing so much a man's business as his 
amusements. Xothing but money-grubbing can be put 
forward to the contrary; no one but 

Mammon/ the least erected spirit that fell 
From Heaven, 

durst risk a word in answer. It is but a lying cant that 
would represent the merchant and the banker as people 
disinterestedly toiling for mankind, and then most useful 
when they are most absorbed in their transactions ; for the 
man is more important than his services. And when my 
T\oyal N'autical Sportsman shall have so far fallen from 
his hopeful youth that he cannot pluck up an enthusiasm 
over anything but his ledger, I venture to doubt whether he 
will be near so nice a fellow, and whether he would welcome, 
with so good a grace, a couple of drenched Englishmen 
paddling into Brussels in the dusk. 

When we had changed our wet clothes and drunk a glass 
of pale ale to the club's prosperity, one of their number 
escorted us to a hotel. He would not join us at our dinner, 
but he had no objection to a glass of wine. Enthusiasm is 
very wearing ; and I begin to understand why prophets were 

1 Mammon, in the Bible, is the personification of worldliness and 
riches. Cf. Mattheir VI. 24 : "Ye cannot s'^vve God and Mammon." 
In Milton's Paradise Lost, from which the passage in the text is 
f]Uot('d, Mammon is represented as one of the fallen angels. 



44 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

unpopular in Judaea/ where they were best known. For 
three stricken hours did tins excellent young man sit lieside 
us to dilate on boats and boat-races; and before he left, he 
was kind enough to order our bedroom candles. 

AVe endeavored now and again to change the subject ; 
but the diversion did not last a moment : the Royal Nautical 
Sportsman bridled, shied, answered the question, and then 
breasted once more into tlie swelling tide of his subject. I 
call it his subject ; but I think it was he who was subjected. 
The Arcthusa, who holds all racing as a creature of the 
devil, found himself in a pitiful dilemma. He durst not 
own his ignorance for the honor of old England, and spoke 
away about English clul)S and English oarsmen whose fame 
had never before come to his ears. Several times, and, 
once above all, on the question of sliding-seats, he was 
within an ace of exposure. As for the Cigarette, who has 
rowed races in the heat of his blood, but now disowns these 
slips of his wanton youth, his case was still more desperate ; 
for the Royal Nautical proposed that he should take an oar 
in one of their eights on the morrow, to compare the Eng- 
lish with the Belgian stroke. I could see my friend per- 
spiring in his chair whenever that particular topic came up. 
And there was yet another proposal which had the same 
effect on both of us. It api^eared that the champion 
canoeist of Europe (as well as most other champions) was 
a Eoyal Nautical Sportsman. And if we would only wait 
until the Sunday, this infernal paddler would be so con- 
descending as to accompany us on our next stage. Neither 
of us had the least desire to drive the coursers of the sun 
against Apollo.- 

^ Why prophets were unpopular in Jtidwa. Lu7:e IV, 24: "No 
prophet is accepted in his own country." 

2 "To drive the coursers of the sun against Apollo." In classic 
myth, the sun, in its apparent passage across the sliy, was supposed to 
be the flaming chariot of Apollo, the sun god. Phaeton, the son of 
Apollo and the nymph Clymene, once essayed to drive his father's 
steeds, but almost consumed the earth with fire, .and was hurled from 
his seat by Jove's thunderbolt. 



AT MAUBEUGE 45 

When the young man was gone, we countermanded our 
candles, and ordered some brandy and water. The great 
billows had gone over our head. The Royal Nautical 
Sportsmen were as nice young fellows as a man would wish 
to see, but they were a trifle too young and a thought too 
nautical for us. We began to see that we were old and 
cynical; we liked ease and the agreeable rambling of the 
human mind about this and the other subject ; we did not 
want to disgrace our native land by messing at eight, or 
toiling pitifully in the wake of the champion canoeist. In 
short, we had recourse to flight. It seemed ungrateful, but 
we tried to make that good on a card loaded with sincere 
compliments. And indeed it was no time for scruples ; we 
seemed to feel the hot breath of the champion on our necks. 



AT MAUBEUGE 



Partly from the terror we had of our good friends the 
Iioyal Nauticals, partly from the fact that there were no 
fewer than fifty-five locks between Brussels and Charleroi, 
we concluded that we should travel by train across the 
frontier, boats and all. Fifty-five locks in a day's journey 
was pretty Avell tantamount to trudging the whole distance 
on foot, with the canoes upon our shoulders, an o1:)ject of 
astonishment to the trees on the canal side, and of honest 
derision to all right-thinking children. 

To pass the frontier, even in a train, is a difficult matter 
for the Aretliusa. He is, somehow or other, a marked man 
for the official eye. Wherever he journeys, there are the 
officers gathered together. Treaties are solemnly signed, 
foreign ministers, ambassadors, and consuls sit throned in 
state from China to Peru, and the Union Jack flutters on 
all the winds of heaven. Under these safeguards, portly 



46 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

clergymen, school-mistresses, gentlemen in gray tweed suits, 
and all the ruck and rabble of British touristry pour un- 
hindered, Murray in hand,^ over the railways of the Conti- 
nent, and yet the slim person of the ArctJiusa is taken in 
the meshes, while these great fish go on their way rejoicing. 
If he travels without a passport, he is cast, without any 
figure about the matter, into noisome dungeons: if his 
papers are in order, he is suffered to go his way indeed, 
but not until he has been humiliated by a general in- 
credulity. He is a born British subject, yet he has never 
succeeded in persuading a single official of his nationality. 
He flatters himself he is indiiferent honest; yet he is 
rarely known for anything better than a spy, and there is 
no absurd and disreputable means of livelihood but has 
been attributed to him in some heat of official or popular 
distrust. . . . 

For the life of me I cannot understand it. I, too, have 
been knolled to church and sat at good men's feasts, but 
I bear no mark of it. I am as strange as a Jack Indian to 
their official spectacles. I might come from any part of 
the globe, it seems, except from where I do.- My ancestors 
have labored in vain, and the glorious Constitution cannot 
protect me in my walks abroad. It is a great thing, be- 
lieve me, to present a good normal type of the nation you 
belong to. 

Nobody else was asked for his papers on the way to 
IMaubeuge, but I was; and although I clung to my rights, 

1 Mitrraij in hand. Jolm Mui'ray was a London publisher of guide 
books. 

2''/ mifjht come from any part of the (pohe, it seems, except from 
nhere I do." "In his movements he was most graceful : every gesture 
was full of unconscious beauty. ... To this unusual and most un-English 
grace it was principally due that he was so often taken for a foreigner. 
We have seen that Mr. Lang found his appearance at twenty-three 
like anything but that of a Scotsman, and the same difficulty pursued 
Stevenson through life, more especially on the continent of Europe. . . . 
In France he was sometimes taken for a Frenchman from some other 
province; he has recorded his imprisonment as a German spy ; and at 
a later date he wrote, 'I have found out what is wrong with me — I 
look like a Pole'." Balfour: Life, II, iOO. 



AT MAUBEUGE 47 

I had to c-lioose at last between accepting the humiliation 
and being left behind 1)}' the train. I was sorr}' to give 
wa}', but I wanted to get to ^laubeuge. 

Maubeuge is a fortified town with a very good inn, the 
Grand Cerf.^ It seemed to be inhabited principally by 
soldiers and bagmen ; at least, these were all that we saw 
except the hotel servants. We had to stay there some time, 
for the canoes were in no hurry to follow us, and at last 
stuck hopelessly in the custom-house until we went back 
to liberate them. There was nothing to do, nothing to see. 
We had good meals, wnich was a great matter, but that 
was all. 

The Cigarette was nearly taken up upon a charge of 
drawing the fortifications : a feat of which he was hopelessly 
incapable. And l)esides, as I suppose each belligerent nation 
has a plan of the other's fortified places already, these pre- 
cautions are of the nature of shutting the stable door after 
the steed is away. But I have no doubt they help to keep 
up a good spirit at home. It is a great thing if you can 
persuade people that they are somehow or other partakers in 
a mystery. It makes them feel bigger. Even the Free- 
masons, who have been shoAvn up to satiety, preserve a 
kind of pride; and not a grocer among them, however 
honest, harmless, and empty-headed he may feel himself to 
be at bottom but comes home from one of their coenacula- 
with a portentous significance for himself. 

It is an odd thing how happily two people, if there are 
two, can live in a place where they have no acquaintance. 
I think the spectacle of a whole life in which 3^011 have 
no part paralyzes personal desire. You are content to be- 
come a mere spectator. The baker stands in his door; 
the colonel with his three medals goes by to the cafe at 

if7?e Grand Cerf. The Great Stag. 

^ Ccennctila. Cenacle, or coenaciilum, means a supping room, spocific- 
ally the upper chamber in which Christ and His disciples ate the Last 
Supper. Mere ccenacula has the sense of exclusive banquets. 



48 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

night ; the troops drum and trumpet and man the ramparts 
as Ijold as so many lions. It would task language to say 
how placidly you behold all this. In a place where you 
have taken some root you are provoked out of your indif- 
ference; you have a hand in the game, — your friends are 
fighting with the army. But in a strange town, not amall 
enough to grow too soon familiar, nor so large- as to have 
laid itself out for travelers, you stand so far apart from the 
business that you positively forget it would be possible to go 
nearer; you have so little human interest around you that 
you do not remember yourself to be a man. Perhaps in a 
very short time you would l)e one no longer. Gymnosophists 
go into a wood with all nature seething around them, with 
romance on every side ; it would be much more to the pur- 
pose if they took up their abode in a dull country town 
where they should see just so much of humanity as to keep 
them from desiring more, and only the stale externals of 
man's life. These externals are as dead to us as so many 
formalities, and speak a dead language in our eyes and 
ears. They have no more meaning than an oath or a 
salutation. We are so much accustomed to see married 
couples going to church of a Sunday that we have clean 
forgotten what they represent; and novelists are driven to 
rehal)ilitate adultery, no less, when they wish to show us 
what a beautiful thing it is for a man and a woman to live 
for each other. 

One person in ]\Iaubeuge, however, showed me something 
more than his outside. That was the driver of the hotel 
omnibus : a mean-enough looking little man, as well as I 
can remember, but with a spark of something human in his 
soul. He had heard of our little journey, and came to me 
at once in envious sympathy. How he longed to travel ! he 
told me. How he longed to be somewhere else, and see the 
round world before he went into the grave ! "Here T am," 
said he. "1 drive to the station. Well. And then I drive 



AT MAUBEUGE 49 

back again to the hotel. And so on every day and all the 
week round. My God, is that life?" I could not say I 
thought it was — for him. He pressed me to tell him where 
I had been, and where I hoped to go ; and as he listened, I 
declare the fellow sighed, flight not this have been a brave 
African traveler, or gone to the Indies after Drake ?^ But 
it is an evil age for the gypsily inclined among men. He 
who can sit squarest on a three-legged stool, he it is who 
has the wealth and glory. 

I wonder if my f-riend is still driving the omnibus for the 
Grand Cerf ! Not very likely, I believe ; for I think he was 
on the eve of mutiny when we passed through, and perhaps 
our passage determined him for good. Better a thousand 
times that he should be a tramp, and mend pots and pans 
by the wayside, and sleep under trees, and see the dawn 
and the sunset every day above a new horizon. I think I 
hear you say that it is a respectaJ^le position to drive an 
omnibus? Very well. What right has he who likes it not 
to keep those who would like it dearly out of this respectable 
position? Suppose a dish were not to my taste, and you 
told me that it was a favorite among the rest of the com- 
pany, what should I conclude from that ? Xot to finish the 
dish against my stomach, I suppose. 

Eespectability is a very good thing in its way, but it does 
not rise superior to all considerations. I would not for a 
I moment venture to hint that it was a matter of taste ; but 
I think I will go as far as this: that if a position is ad- 
mittedly unkind, uncomfortable, unnecessary, and super- 
fluously useless, although it were as respectable as the 
Church of England, the sooner a man is out of it, the better 
for himself, and all concerned. 

^ Gone to the Indies after Dnil-c. Sir Francis Drake (1540?-1596) 
was the first Englishman to circumnavigate the globe. After two 
voyages to the West Indies, he made a freebooting expedition to the 
Spanish Main, where he took seve.ral towns and much treasure. 



50 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

ON THE SAMBHE CANALIZED 
TO QUARTES 

About three in the afternoon the whole establishment of 
the Grand Cerf accompanied us to the water's edge. The 
man of the omnibus was there with haggard eyes. Poor 
cage-bird ! Do I not remember the time when I myself 
haunted the station, to watch train after train carry its 
complement of freemen into the night, and read the names 
of distant places on the time-bills with indescribable long- 
ings? 

We were not clear of the fortifications before the rain be- 
gan. The wind was contrary, and blew in furious gusts; 
nor were the aspects of nature any more clement than the 
doings of the sky. For we passed through a blighted 
country, sparsely covered with brush, but handsomely 
enough diversified with factory chimneys. We landed in a 
soiled meadow among some pollards, and there smoked a 
pipe in a flaw of fair weather. But the wind blew so hard 
we could get little else to smoke. There were no natural 
objects in the neighborhood, but some sordid workshops. 
A group of children, headed by a tall girl, stood and 
watched us from a little distance all the time we stayed. I 
heartily wonder what they thought of us. 

At Hautmont, the lock was almost impassable ; the land- 
ing place being steep and high, and the launch at a long 
distance. Xear a dozen grimy workmen lent us a liand. 
They refused any reward ; and, what is much better, refused 
it handsomely, without conveying any sense of insult. "It 
is a way we have in our country-side," said they. And a 
very becoming way it is. In Scotland, where also you will 
get services for nothing, the good people reject your money 
as if you had been trying to corrupt a voter. When people 
take the trouble to do dignified acts, it is worth while to 



ON THE SAMBRE CANALIZED 51 

take a little more, and allow the dignity to be common to 
all concerned. But in our brave Saxon countries, where we 
plod threescore years and ten in the mud, and the wind 
keeps singing in our ears from birth to burial, we do our 
good and bad with a high hand and almost offensively ; and 
make even our alms a witness-bearing and an act of war 
against the wrong. 

After Hautmont, the sun came forth again and the 
wind went down; and a little paddling took us beyond the 
iron works and through a delectable land. The river 
wound among low hills, so that sometimes the sun was at 
our backs and sometimes it stood right ahead, and the river 
])efore us was one sheet of intolerable glory. On either 
hand meadows and orchards bordered, with a margin of 
sedge and water flowers, upon the river. The hedges were 
of great height, woven about the trunks of hedgerow elms ; 
and the fields, as they were often very small, looked like^a 
series of bowers along the stream. There was never any 
prospect; sometimes a hill-top with its trees would look 
over the nearest hedgerow, just to make a middle distance 
for the sky ; but that was all. The heaven was bare of 
clouds. The atmosphere, after the rain, was of enchanting 
purity. The river doubled among the hillocks, a shining- 
strip of mirror glass ; and the dip of the paddles set the 
flowers shaking along the brink. 

In the meadows wandered black and wdiite cattle fan- 
tastically marked. One beast, with a white head and the 
rest of the body glossy black, came to the edge to drink, 
and stood gravely twitching his ears at me as I went by, 
like some sort of preposterous clergyman in a play. A 
moment after I heard a loud plunge, and, turning my head, 
saw the clergyman struggling to shore. The bank had given 
way under his feet. 

Besides the cattle, we saw no living things except a few 
birds and a great many fishermen. These sat along the 



52 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

^dges of the meadows, sometimes with one rod, sometimes 
with as many as half a score. They seemed stupefied with 
<:ontentment ; and, when we induced them to exchange a 
few words with us about the weather, tlieir voices sounded 
quiet and far away. There was a strange diversity of 
opinion among them as to the kind of fish for which they 
set their hires ; although they were all agreed in this, that 
the river was abundantly supplied. Where it was plain that 
no two of them had ever caught the same kind of fish, 
we could not help suspecting that perhaps not any one of 
them had ever caught a fish at all. I hope, since the after- 
noon was so lovely, that they were one and all^ rewarded ; 
and that a silver booty went home in every basket for the 
pot. Some of my friends would cry shame on me for 
this ; but I prefer a man, were he only an angler, to the 
l)ravest pair of gills in all God's waters. I do not affect 
iishes unless when cooked in sauce; whereas an angler is 
an important piece of river scenery, and hence deserves 
some recognition among canoeists. He can always tell you 
where you are, after a mild fashion ; and his quiet presence 
serves to accentuate the -.solitude and stillness, and remind 
you of the glittering citizens below your boat. 

The Sambre turned so industriously to and fro among 
his little hills that it was past six before we drew near 
the lock at Quartes. There were some children on the tow- 
jiath, with whom the Cigarette fell into a chaffing talk as 
they ran along beside us. It was in vain that I warned him. 
In vain I told him in English that boys were the most 
dangerous creatures ; and if once you began with them, it 
was safe to end in a shower of stones. For my own part, 
whenever anything was addressed to me, I smiled gently 
nnd shook my head, as though I were an inoffensive person 
inadequately acquainted with French. For, indeed, I have 
had such an experience at home that I would sooner meet 
many wild animals than a troop of healthy urchins. 



ON THE SAMBRE CANALIZED 53 

But I was doing injustice to these peaceable young 
Hainaulters. AMien the Cigarette went off to malve in- 
quiries, I got out upon the bank to smoke a pipe and 
superintend the boats, and became at once the centre of 
much amiable curiosity. The children had been joined b}^ 
this time by a young woman and a mild lad who had lost 
an arm; and tliis gave me more security. When I let slip 
my first word or so in French, a little girl nodded her head 
with a comical grown-up air. "Ah, you see," she said, "he 
understands well enough now : he was just making believe." 
And the little group laughed together very good-natu^ecTl3^ 

They were much impressed when they heard we came 
from p]ngland; and the little girl proffered tlie information 
that England was an island "and a far way from here — 
hieri loin d'ici." 

"Ay, you may say that, a far way from here," said the 
lad with one arm. 

I was nearly as homesick as ever I was in my life ; they 
seemed to make it such an incalculable distance to the place 
where I first saw the day. 

They admired the canoes very much. And I observed one 
piece of delicacy in these children which is worthy of record. 
They had been deafening us for the last hundred yards 
with petitions for a sail; ay, and they deafened us to the 
same tune next morning when we came to start; but then, 
when the canoes were lying empty, there was no word of 
any such petition. Delicacy? or perhaps a bit of fear for 
the water in so crank a vessel? I hate cynicism a great 
deal worse than I do the devil ; unless perhaps, the two were 
the same thing. And yet 'tis a good tonic ; the cold tub 
and bath-towel of the sentiments ; and positive^ necessary 
to life in cases of advanced sensibility. 

From the 1)oats tliey turned to my costume. They could 
not make enough of my red sash ; and my knife filled them 
with awe. 



54 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

"They make them like that in England," said the bo}^ 
with one arm. I was glad he did not know how badly 
we make them in England nowadays. "They are for people 
who go away to sea/' he added, "and to defend one's life 
against great fish." 

I felt I was becoming a more and more romantic figure 
to the little group at every word. And so I suppose I was. 
Even my pipe, although it was an ordinary French clay, 
pretty well "trousered," as they call it, would have a rarity 
in their eyes, as a thing coming from so far away. And if 
my feathers were not very fine in themselves, they were all 
from over seas. One thing in my outfit, however, tickled 
tliem out of all politeness ; and that was the bemired condi- 
tion of my canvas shoes. I suppose they were sure the 
mud at any rate was a home product. The little girl (who 
was the genius of the party) displayed her own sabots in 
competition ; and I wish you could have seen how gracefully 
and merrily she did it. 

The young woman's milk-can, a great amphora^ of ham- 
mered brass, stood some way off upon the sward. I was 
glad of an opportunity to divert public attention from my- 
self and return some of the compliments I had received. 
80 I admired it cordially both for form and color, telling 
them, and very truly, that it was as beautiful as gold. They 
were not surprised. The things were plainly the boast of 
the country-side. And the children expatiated on the costli- 
ness of these amphorae, which sell sometimes as high as 
thirty francs apiece; told me how they were carried on 
donkeys, one on either side of the saddle, a brave caparison 
in them.selves; and how they were to be seen all over the 
district, and at the larger farms in great number and of 
great size. 

1 amphora. An ancient .iar, usually with two handles and a pointed 
haso, used by the ancients to contain wine. 



PONT-SUE-SAMBRE 55 

PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 
WE AKE PEDLARS 

The Cigareite returned with good news. There were 
beds to be had some ten minutes' walk from where we were, 
at a place called Pont. We stowed the canoes in a granar}^, 
and asked among the children for a guide. The circle at 
once widened round us, and our offers of reward were re- 
ceived in dispiriting silence. We were plainly a pair of 
Bluebeards to the children ; they might speak to us in pub- 
lic places, and where they had the advantage of numbers; 
but it was another thing to venture off alone with two un- 
couth and legendary characters, who had dropped from the 
clouds upon their hamlet this quiet afternoon, sashed and 
beknived, and with a flavor of great voyages. The owner 
of the granary came to our assistance, singled out one little 
fellow, and threatened him with corporalities ; or I suspect 
we should have had to find the way for ourselves. As it 
w^as, he was more frightened at the granary man than the 
strangers, having perhaps had some experience of the 
former. But I fancy his little heart must have been going 
at a fine rate, for he kept trotting at a respectful distance 
in front, and looking back at us with scared eyes. Not 
otherwise may the children of the young world have guided 
Jove or one of his Olympian compeers on an adventure.^ 

A miry lane led us up from Quartes, with its church and 
bickering windmill. The hinds were trudging homewards 
from the fields. A brisk little old woman passed us by. 
She was seated across a donkey between a pair of glittering 
milk-cans, and, as she went, she kicked jauntily with her 

^fhe cMldren of ihr yoiuiff irorld hm-e f/uided Jove, etc. In classic 
myth, Jove, the kin^" of ijods and men. and other gods who dwelt on 
Mt. Olympus, are frequently represented as seeking adventure — usually 
some love adventure — among mortals. Jove's wooing of lo, Danae, 
or Semele is typical. 



56 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

heels upon the donkey's side, and scattered shrill remarks 
among the wayfarers. It was notable that none of the tired 
men took the trouble to reply. Our conductor soon led 
us out of the lane and across country. The sun had gone 
down, but the west in front of us was one lake of level 
gold. The path wandered a while in the open, and then 
passed under a trellis like a bower indefinitely prolonged. On 
either hand w^ere shadowy orchards ; cottages lay low among 
the leaves and sent their smoke to heaven ; every here and 
there, in an opening, appeared the great gold face of the 
west. 

I never saw the Cigarette in such an idyllic frame of 
mind. He waxed positivejy lyrical in praise of country 
scenes. I was little less exhilarated myself; the mild air of 
the evening, the shadows, the rich lights, and the silence 
made a symphonious accompaniment about our walk; and 
w^e both determined to avoid towns for the future and sleep 
in hamlets. 

At last the path went between two houses and turned the 
party out into a wide, muddy high-road, bordered, as far 
as the eye could reach on either hand by an unsightly vil- 
lage. The houses stood well back, leaving a ribbon of waste 
land on either side of the road, where there were stacks of 
firewood, carts, barrows, rubbish heaps, and a little doubt- 
ful grass. Away on the left, a gaunt tow^r stood in the 
middle of the street. What it had been in past ages I know 
not : probably a hold in time of war ; but nowadays it bore 
an illegible dial-plate in its upper parts, and near the 
bottom an iron letter-box. 

The inn to which we had been recommended at Quartes 
was full, or else the landlady did not like our looks. I 
ought to say, that with our long, damp india-rubl^er bags, 
we presented rather a -doubtful type of civilization : like 
rag-and-bone men, the Cigarette imagined. "These gentle- 
men are pedlars?" — Ces messieurs sont cles marchands? — - 



PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 57 

asked the landlady. And then, without waiting for an 
answer, which' I suppose she thought superfluous in so plain 
a case, recommended us to a butcher who lived hard l)y 
the tower and took in travelers to lodge. 

Thither went we. But the butcher was flitting, and all 
his beds were taken down. Or else he didn't like our 
look. As a parting shot, we had, ^'These gentlemen are 
pedlars ?" 

It began to grow dark in earnest. We could no longer 
distinguish the faces of the people Avho passed us by with 
an inarticulate good evening. And the householders of 
Pont seemed very economical with their oil, for we saw not 
a single window lighted in all that long village. I believe 
it is the longest village in the world; but I daresay in our 
' predicament every pace counted three times over. We were 
much cast down when we came to the last auberge,^ and, 
looking in at the dark door, asked timidly if we could sleep 
there for the night. A female voice assented, in no very 
friendly tones. We clapped the bags down and found our 
way to chairs. 

The place was in total darkness, save a red glow in the 
chinks and ventilators of the stove. But now^ the landlady 
lit a lamp to see her new guests; I suppose the darkness 
was what saved us another expulsion, for I cannot say 
she looked gratified at our appearance. We were in a large, 
bare apartment, adorned with two allegorical prints of 
Music and Painting, and a copy of the Law against Public 
Drunkenness. On one side there was a bit of a bar, with 
some half a dozen bottles. Two laborers sat waiting supper, 
in attitudes of extreme weariness; a plain-looking lass 
bustled about with a sleepy child of two, and the landlady 
began to derange the pots upon the stove and set some 
beef -steak to grill. 

''These gentlemen are pedlars?" she asked sharply: and 

^ aiiherge. Inn. 



58 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

tliat was all the conversation forthcoming. AVe began to 
think we might be pedlars, after all. 1 never knew a 
l^opulation with so narrow a range of conjecture as the 
innkeepers of Pont-sur-Sambre. But manners and bearing- 
have not a wider currency than bank-notes. You have only 
to get far enough out of your beat, and all your ac- 
complished airs will go for nothing. These Hainaulters 
could see no difference between us and the average pedlar. 
Indeed, we had some grounds for reflection while the steak 
was getting ready, to see how perfectly they accepted us at 
their own valuation, and how our best politeness and best 
efforts at entertainments seemed to fit quite suitably with 
the character of packmen. At least it seemed a good 
account of the profession in France, that even before such 
judges we could not beat them at our own weapons. 

At last we were called to table. The two hinds (and 
one of them looked sadly worn and white in the face, as 
though sick with over-work and under-feeding) supped off 
a single plate of some sort of bread-berry,^ some potatoes 
in their jackets, a small cup of coffee sweetened with sugar 
candy, and one tumbler of swipes.- The landlady, her son, 
and the lass aforesaid took the same. Our meal was quite 
a banquet by comparison. We had some beef-steak, not so 
tender as it might have been, some of the potatoes, some 
cheese, an extra glass of the swipes, and white sugar in 
our coffee. 

You see what it is to be a gentleman, — I beg your par- 
don, what it is to be a pedlar. It had not before occurred 
to me that a pedlar was a great man in a lal)orer's ale- 
house ; but now that I had to enact the part for the evening, 
I found that so it was. He has in his hedge quarters some- 
what the same pre-eminency as the man who takes a private 

1 hrcnd-herry. An article of food made by pouring boiling water ob 
toasted bread and sweetening with sugar. 
- swiijcs. Poor, weak beer. 



PONT-SUR-SAMBKE 59 

parlor in a hotel. The more you look into it the more 
infinite are the class distinctions among men; and possibly, 
1)V a happy dispensation, there is no one at all at the l)ot- 
tom of the scale; no one but can find some superiority 
over somebody else, to keep up his pride withal. 

We were displeased enough with our fare. Particularly 
the Cigarette: for I tried to make believe that I was amused 
with the adventure, tough beef-steak and all. According to 
the Lucretian maxim,^ our steak should have been flavored 
by the look of the other people's bread-l3erry ; but we did 
not find it so in practice. You may have a head knowledge 
that other people live more poorly than yourself, but it is 
not agreeable — I was going to say, it is against the etiquette 
of the universe — to sit at the same table and pick your 
awn superior diet from among their crusts. I had not 
seen such a thing done since the greedy boy at school with 
his birthday cake. It was odious enough to witness, I could 
remember; and I had never thought to play the part my- 
self. But there, again, you see what it is to be a pedlar. 

There is no doubt that the poorer classes in our country 
are much more charitably disposed than their superiors in 
wealth. And I fancy it must arise a great deal from the 
comparative indistinction of the easy and the not so easy 
in these ranks. A workman or a |)edlar cannot shutter 
himself off from his less comfortable neighbors. If he 
treats himself to a luxury, he must do it in the face of a 
dozen who cannot. And what should more directly lead to 
charitable thoughts? . . . Thus the poor man, camp- 
ing out in life, sees it as it is, and knows that every 



1 tJie Lucretian maxim. Possibly the following passage : 
"When that the mighty sea's by tempest lashed 
To fury, sweet it is from land to gaze 
On one who's fiercely battling with the waves. 
Not that another's peril gives us joy. 
But that 'tis sweet when ivc are free from icoes 
Which otJiers suffer." 

(Lucretius : De Naturci Rerum.) 



60 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

mouthful he puts in his belly has been wrenched out of 
the fingers of the hungry. 

But at a certain stage of prosperity, as in a balloon 
ascent, the fortunate person passes through a zone of 
clouds, and sub-lunary matters are thenceforward hidden 
from his view. He sees nothing but the heavenly bodies, 
all in admirable order and positively as good as new. He 
finds himself surrounded in the most touching manner by 
the attentions of Providence, and compares himself invol- 
untarily with the lilies and the skylarks. He does not pre- 
cisely sing, of course ; but then he looks so unassuming in 
his open Landau ! If all the world dined at one table, this 
philosophy would meet with some rude knocks. 



PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 
THE TRAVELING MERCHANT 

Like the lackeys in Moliere's farce,^ when the true 
nobleman broke in on their high life below stairs, we were 
destined to be confronted with a real pedlar. To make the 
lesson still more poignant for fallen gentlemen like us, 
he was a pedlar of infinitely more consideration than the 
sort of scurvy fellows we were taken for ; like a lion among 
mice, or a ship of war bearing down upon two cock-boats. 
Indeed, he did not deserve the name of pedlar at all ; he 
was a traveling merchant. 

I suppose it was about half past eight when this worth}^, 
Monsieur Hector Gilliard, of Maubeuge, turned up at the 
alehouse door in a tilt cart drawn by a donkey, and cried 
cheerily on the inhabitants. He was a lean, nervous flib- 
bertigibbet of a man, with something the look of an actor 

1 Like the lackeys in Moliere's farce. Except for the phrase "below 
Btairs," the allusion applies to Les Precieuses Ridicules. 



PONT-SUR-SAMBRE 61 

and something the look of a horse jockey. He had evi- 
dently prospered without any of the favors of education, 
for he adhered Math stern simplicity to the masculine 
gender/ and in the course of the evening passed off some 
fancy futures in a very florid style of architecture. Witli 
him came his wife, a comely young woman, with her haii- 
tied in a yellow kerchief, and their son, a little fellow of 
four, in a blouse and military kepi.- It was notable that 
the child was many degrees better dressed than either of 
the parents. We were informed he was already at a board- 
ing school ; but the holidays having just commenced, he 
was off to spend them with his parents on a cruise. An 
enchanting holiday occupation, was it not? to travel all 
day with father and mother in the tilt cart full of count- 
less treasures ; the green country rattling by on either side, 
and the children in all the villages contemplating him with 
envy and wonder. It is better fun, during the holidays, 
to be the son of a traveling merchant, than son and heir 
to the greatest cotton spinner in creation. And as for 
being a reigning prince, — indeed, I never saw one if it 
was not Master Gil Hard ! 

While M. Hector and the son of the house were putting 
up the donkey and getting all the valuables under lock 
and key, the landlady warmed up the remains of our beef- 
steak and fried the cold potatoes in slices, and Madame 
Gilliard set herself to waken the boy, who had come far 
that day, and was peevish and dazzled by the light. He 
was no sooner awake than he began to prepare himself for 
supper by eating galette,^ unripe pears, and cold potatoes^, 
with, so far as I could judge, positive benefit to his appe- 
tite. 

The landlady, fired with motherly emulation, awoke her 

1 masculine riender . . . fancif futures. The pedlar's grammatiral 
erroi'.s consist in disregarding tlie distinctions of gender in French 
nouns and pronouns, and in forming his future tenses incorrectly. 

2 kepi. A flat-topped military cap with a horizontal visor. 
-gahtte. Cake. 



(32 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

own little girl, and the two cliildren were confronted. 
Master Gilliard looked at her for a moment, very much as 
a dog Jooks at his own reflection in a mirror before he 
turns away. He was at that time absorbed in the galette. 
I lis mother seemed crestfallen that he should display so 
little inclination towards the other sex, and expressed her 
disappointment with some candor and a very proper refer- 
once to the influence of years. 

Sure enough a time will come when he will pay more 
attention to the girls, and think a great deal less of his 
mother; let us hope she will like it as well as she seemed 
to fancy. But it is odd enough ; the very women who pro- 
fess most contempt for mankind as a sex seem to find even 
its ugliest particulars rather lively and high-minded in 
their own sons. 

The little girl looked longer and with more interest, 
probably because she was in her own house, while he was a 
traveler and accustomed to strange sights. And, besides, 
there was no galette in the case with her. 

All the time of supper there was nothing spoken of but 
my young lord. The two parents were both absurdly fond 
of their child. Monsieur kept insisting on his sagacity; 
how he knew all the children at school by name, and when 
this utterly failed on trial, how he was cautious and exact 
to a strange degree, and if asked anything, he would sit 
and think — and think, and if he did not know it, "my 
faith, he wouldn't tell you at all — ma foi, 11 nc vous Je dim 
pas/' Which is certainly a very high degree of caution. 
At intervals, M. Hector would appeal to his wife, with his 
mouth full of beef-steak, as to the little fellow's age at 
such or such a time when he had said or done something 
memorable; and I noticed that Madame usually pooh- 
poohed these inquiries. She herself was not boastful in 
her vein ; but she never had her fill of caressing the child ; 
and she seemed to take a gentle pleasure in recalling all 



PONT-SUE-SAMBKE 63 

that was fortunate in his little existence. No school-boy 
could have talked more of the holidays which were just be- 
ginning and less of the black schooltime which must in- 
evitably follow after. She showed, v/ith a pride perhaps 
partly mercantile in origin, his pockets preposterously 
swollen with tops, and whistles, and string. When she 
called at a house in the way of business, it appeared he 
kept her company ; and, whenever a sale was made, received 
a sou out of the profit. Indeed, they spoiled him vastly, 
these two good people. But they had an eye to his man- 
ners, for all that, and reproved him for some little faults 
in breeding which occurred from time to time during sup- 
per. 

On the whole, I was not much hurt at being taken for 
a pedlar. I might think that I ate wdth greater delicacy, 
or that my mistakes in French belonged to a different 
order; but it was plain that these distinctions would be 
thrown away upon the landlady and the two laborers. In 
all essential things we and the Gilliards cut very much 
the same figure in the alehouse kitchen. M. Hector was 
more at home, indeed, and took a higher tone with the 
world; but that was explicable on the ground of his driv- 
ing a donkey-cart, while we poor bodies tramped afoot. I 
dare say the rest of the company thought us dying with 
envv, though in no ill sense, to be as far up in the profes- 
sion as the new arrival. 

And of one thing I am sure ; that everyone thawed and 
became more humanized and conversible as soon as these 
innocent people appeared upon the scene. I would not 
very readily trust the traveling merchant with any ex- 
travagant sum of money, but I am sure his heart was in 
the right place. In this mixed world, if you can find one 
or two sensible places in a man ; above all, if you should 
find a whole family living together on such pleasant terms, 
you may surely be satisfied, and take the rest for granted; 



(34 AN INLAND A^OYAGE 

or, what is a great deal better, boldly make up your mind 
tiiat you can do. perfectly well without the rest, and that 
ten thousand bad traits cannot make a single good one 
any the less good. 

It was getting late. M. Hector lit a stable lantern and 
went oil to his cart for some arangements, and my young 
gentleman proceeded to divest liimself of the better part 
of his taiment and play gymnastics on his mother's lap, 
and thence on to the floor, with accompaniment of laugh- 
ter. 

^'xVre you going to sleep alone?" asked the servant lass. 

"There's little fear of that," says Master Gilliard. 

"You sleep alone at school," objected his mother. "Come, 
come, you must be a man." 

But he protested that school was a different matter from 
the holidays; that there were dormitories at school, and 
silenced the discussion with kisses, his mother smiling, no 
one better pleased than she. 

There certainly was, as he phrased it, very little fear 
that he should sleep alone, for there was but one bed for 
the trio. We, on our part, had firmly protested against 
one man's accommodation for two; and we had a double- 
bedded pen in the loft of the house, furnished, beside the 
beds, with exactly three hat pegs and one table. There 
was not so much as a glass of water. But the window 
would open, by good fortune. 

Some time before I feel asleep the loft was full of the 
sound of mighty snoring; the Gilliards, and the laborers, 
and the people of the inn, all at it, I suppose, with one 
consent. The young moon outside shone ver}^ clearly over 
Pont-sur-Sambre, and down upon the alehouse where all 
we pedlars were abed. 



TO LANDRECIES 65 

ON THE SAMBRE CANALIZED 
TO LAXDKECIES 

In the morning, when we came downstairs the landlady 
pointed out to us two pails of water behind the street door. 
''VoUd dc Vcau pour vous deharhouiller/'^ says she. And 
so there we made a shift to wash ourselves, while Madame 
Gil Hard brushed the family boots on the outer doorstep, 
and M. Hector, whistling- cheerily, arranged some small 
goods for the day's campaign in a portable chest of draw- 
ei"s, which formed a part of his baggage. Meanwhile the 
child was letting off Waterloo crackers all over the floor. 

1 wonder, by the way, what they call Waterloo- crackers 
in -France; perhaps Austerlitz crackers. There is a great 
deal in the point of view. Do you remember the French- 
man who, traveling by way of Southampton, was put down 
in Waterloo Station, and had to drive across Waterloo 
Bridge? He had a mind to go home again, it seems. 

Pont itself is on the river, but whereas it is ten minutes' 
walk from Quartes by dry land, it is six weary kilometr^, 
by water. We left our bags at the inn and walked to our 
canoes through the wet orchards unencumbered. Some of 
the children were there to see us off, but we were no longer 
the mysterious beings of the night before. A departure is 
much less romantic than an unexplained arrival in the 
golden evening. Although we might be greatly taken at a 
ghost's first appearance, we should behold him vanish with 
comparative equanimity. 

The good folks of the inn at Pont, when we called there 
for the bags, were overcome with marvelling. At the sight 
of these two dainty little boats, with a fluttering Union 

^"Yoila cle Vcau pour vous deharhouiUer." There's water to wash 
your face with. 

2 Waterloo . . . Austerlitz. At W^aterloo the French under Napo- 
leon were decisively defeated ; at Austerlitz, decisively victorious. 



QQ AN INLAND A^OYAGE 

Jaek^ on each, and all the varnish shining from the sponge, 
they hegan to perceive that the}^ had entertained angels un- 
awares. The landlady stood upon the bridge, probably la- 
menting she had charged so little ; the son ran to and fro, 
and called out the neighbors to enjoy the sight; and we 
paddled away from quite a crowd of rapt observers. These 
gentlemen pedlars, indeed ! Xow you see their quality 
too late. 

The whole day was showery, with occasional drenching 
plumps. We were soaked to the skin, then partially dried 
in the sun, then soaked once more. But there were some 
calm intervals, and one notably, wdien we were skirting 
the forest of Mormal, a sinister name to the ear,^ but a 
place most gratifying to sight and smell. It looked solemn 
along the river-side, drooping its boughs into the water, 
and j)iling them up aloft into a wall of leaves. What is a 
forest but a city of nature's own, full of hardy and in- 
nocuous living things, where there is nothing dead and 
nothing made with the hands, but the citizens themselves 
are the houses and public monuments? There is nothing 
so much alive and yet so quiet as a woodland; and a pair 
of people, swinging past in canoes, feel very small and 
bustling by comparison. 

And, surely, of all smells in the world the smell of 
many trees is the sweetest and most fortifying. The sea 
has a rude pistolling sort of odor, that takes you in the 
nostrils like snuff, and carries with it a fine sentiment of 
open water and tall ships; but the smell of a forest, which 
comes nearest to this in tonic quality, surpasess it by many 
degrees in the quality of softness. Again, the smell of the 
sea has little variety, but the smell of a forest is infinitely 

^ Union Jach. The national ensign of the United Kingdom of Great 
Britain and Ireland. 

- Mormal, a sinister name to the ear. Apparently because of its 
resemblance in sound to the French woi-ds mort (death) and mal (evil). 



i 



TO LANDEECIES G7 

changeful ; it varies with the hour of the day, not in 
strength merely, hut in character; and the different sorts 
of trees, as you go from one zone of the wood to another, 
seem to live among different kinds of atmosphere. Usu- 
ally the rosin of the fir predominates. But some woods 
are more coquettish in their hahits ; and the breath of the 
forest Mormal, as it came aboard upon us that showery 
afternoon, was perfumed with nothing less delicate than 
sweet])rier. 

I wish our way had always lain among woods. Trees 
are the most civil society. An old oak that has been grow- 
ing where he stands since before the Eeformation, taller 
than many spires, more stately than the greater part of 
mountains, and yet a living thing, liable to sicknesses and 
death, like you and me: is not that in itself a speaking 
lesson in history? But acres on acres full of such 
patriarchs contiguously rooted, their green tops billowing 
in the wind, their stalwart younglings pushing up about 
their knees; a whole forest, healthy and beautiful, giving 
color to the light, giving perfume to the air; what is this 
but the most imposing piece in nature's repertory? Heine 
wished to lie like j\Ierlin under the oaks of Broceliande.^ 
I should not be satisfied with one tree ; but if the wood 
grew together like a ban3^an grove, I would be buried under 
the tap-root of the whole ; my parts should circulate from 
oak to oak ; and my consciousness should be diffused abroad 
in all the forest, and give a common heart to that assembly 
of green spires, so that it, also, might rejoice in its own 
loveliness and dignity. I think I feel a thousand squirrels 
leaping from bough to bough in my vast mausoleum ; and 

^Merlin under the oaks of Broceliande. For the fate of Merlin, the 
magician of King Arthur's court, see Tennyson's Merlin and Vivien. — 
"Then, in one moment slie put forth the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the lioUow oalc he lay as dead. 
And lost to life and use and name and fame." 



68 AX INLAND VOYAGE 

the birds and the winds merrily coursing over its uneven, 
leafy surface. 

Alas ! the forest of Mornial is only a little bit of a wood, 
and it w^as but for a little way that we skirted by its 
boundaries. And the rest of the time the rain kept com- 
ing in squirts and the wind in squalls, until one's heart 
grew weary of such fitful, scolding M^eather. It was odd 
how the showers began when we had to carry the boats over 
a lock and must expose our legs. They always did. This 
is a sort of thing tliat readily begets a personal feeling 
against nature. There seems no reason why the shower 
should not come five minutes l)efore or five minutes after, 
unless you suppose an intention to affront you. The 
Cigarette had a mackintosh which put him more or less 
above these contrarieties. But I had to bear the brunt un- 
covered. I Ix'gan to rememljer that nature was a woman. 
My companion, in a rosier temper, listened with great 
satisfaction to my jeremiads,^ and ironically concurred. 
He instanced, as a cognate matter, the action of the tides, 
^'which," said he, ''was altogether designed for the con- 
fusion of canoeists, except in so far as it was calculated to 
minister to a barren vanity on the part of the moon." 

At the last lock, some little way out of Landrecies, I re- 
fused to go any farther; and sat in a drift of rain by the 
side of the bank, to have a reviving pipe. A vivacious old 
man, whom I took to have ijeen the devil, drew near, and 
questioned me about our journey. In the fulness of my 
heart I laid bare our plans before him. He said it was the 
silliest enterprise that ever he heard of. Why, did I not 
know, he asked me, that it was nothing but locks, locks, 
locks, the whole way? not to mention that, at this season 
of the year, we should find the Oise quite dry ? "Get into 
a train, my little young man,'' said he, "and go you away 

1 jeremiads. Utterances of wo? or despair ; derived from Jeremiah, 
tlie name of tlie autlior of the book of Lamentations. 



TO LAXDRECIES 69 

home to your parents." I was so astounded at the man's 
malice tliat I could only stare at him in silence. A tree 
would never have spoken to me like this. At last I got 
out with some words. We had come from Antwerp already, 
I told him, which was a good long way ; and we should do 
the rest in spite of him. Yes, I said, if there were no other 
reason, I would do it now, just because he had dared to 
say we could not. The pleasant old gentlemen looked at 
me sneeringly, made an allusion to my canoe, and marched 
off, wagging his head. 

I was still inwardly fuming when up came a pair of 
young fellows, who imagined I was the Cigarette's servant, 
on a comparison, I suppose, of my hare jersey with the 
other's mackintosh, and asked me many questions about 
my place and my master's character. I said he was a good 
enough fellow, but had this absurd voyage on the head. 
"Oh, no, no," said one, "you must not say that; it is not 
absurd; it is very courageous of him." I l)elieve these 
were a couple of angels sent to give me heart again. It 
was truly fortifying to reproduce all the old man's insinu- 
ations, as if they were original to me in my character of a 
malcontent footman, and have them brushed away like so 
many flies by these admirable young men. 
" When I recounted this affair to the Cigarette, "They 
must have a curious idea of how English servants behave," 
says he, dryly, "for you treated me like a brute beast at 
the lock." 

I was a good deal mortified; but my temper had suf- 
fered, it is a fact. 



.^0 AN INLAND VOYAujii 



AT LANDRECIES 

At Landrecies the rain still fell and the wind still blew ; 
but we found a double-bedded room with plenty of furni- 
ture, real water-jugs with real water in them, and dinner, 
a real dinner, not inuocent of real wine. After having 
been a pedlar for one night, and a butt for the elements 
during the whole of the next day, these comfortal)le eir- 
cumstances fell on my heart like sunshine. There was an 
English fruiterer at dinner, traveling with a Belgian fruit- 
erer: in the evening at the cafe we watched our compatriot 
drop a good deal of money at corks, and I don't know 
why, but this pleased us. 

It turned out that we were to see more of Landrecies 
than we expected; for the weather next day was simply 
bedlamite. It is not the place one would have chosen for 
a day's rest, for it consists almost entirely of fortifications. 
Within the ramparts, a few blocks of houses, a long row 
of barracks, and a church figure, with what countenance 
they may, as the town. There seems to be no trade, and a 
shop-keeper from whom I. bought a sixpenny flint and 
steel was so much afl'ected that he filled my pockets with 
spare flints into the bargain. The only public buildings 
that had any interest for us were the hotel and the cafe. 
But we visited the church. There lies Marshal Clarke. 
But as neither of us had ever heard of that military hero, 
we bore the associations of the spot with fortitude. 

In all garrison towns, guard-calls, and reveilles, and 
such like, make a fine, romaiitic interlude in civic business. 
Bugles, and drums, and fifes are of themselves most ex- 
.cellent things in nature, and when they carry the mind to 
marching armies and the picturesque vicissitudes of war 
they stir up something proud in the heart. But in a 
shadow of a town like Landrecies, witli little else mov- 



AT LANDRECIES 71 

ing, these points of war made a proportionate commotion. 
Indeed, they were the only things to remember. It was 
just the place to hear the round going by at night in the 
darkness, with the solid tramp of men marching, and the 
startling reverberations of the drum. It reminded you 
that even this place was a point in the great warfaring 
system of Europe, and might on some future day be ringed 
about with cannon smoke and thunder, and make itself a 
name among strong towns. 

The drum, at any rate, from its martial voice and not- 
able physiological effect, nay, even from its cumbrous and 
comical shape, stands alone among the instruments of 
noise. And if it be true, as I have heard it said, that 
drums are covered with asses' skin, what a picturesque 
irony is there in that ! As if this long-suffering animal's 
Hide had not been sufficiently belabored during life, now 
by Lyonnese costermongers,^ now by presumptuous Hebrew 
prophets, it must be stripped from his poor hinder quar- 
ters after death, stretched on a drum, and beaten night 
after night round the streets of every garrison town in 
Europe. And up the heights of Alma and Spicheren,- and 
wherever death has his red flag a-flying, and sounds his 
own potent tuck upon the cannons, there also must the 
drummer boy, hurrying with Avhite face over fallen com- 
rades, batter and bemaul this slip of skin from the loins of 
peaceable donke3'S. 

Generally a man is never more uselessly employed than 
when he is at this trick of bastinadoing asses' hide. We 
know what effect it has in life, and how your dull ass will 
not mend his pace with beating. But in this state of 

^ Ljjonnese costermongcrs are the hawkers of Lyons. For the 
explanation of •'presumptuous Hebrew prophets, " see the story of 
Baalara {Sumhers XXII, 21-25). • • 

-Alma and SpicJieren. Alma is a river in the Crimea; on its banks, 
during the Crimean war, the Russians were defeated by the combined 
forces of the British. French, and Turkish. At Spicheren, a village in. 
German Lorraine, the French were defeated by the Germans on 
August G, 1870. 



72 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

mummy and melancholy survival of itself, when the hol- 
low skin reverberates to the drummer's wrist, and each 
dub-a-dub goes direct to a man's heart, and puts madness 
there, and that disposition of the pulses which we, in our 
big way of talking, nickname Heroism, — is there not some- 
thing in the nature of a revenge upon the donkey's perse- 
cutors? Of old, he might say, you drubbed me up hill 
and down dale and I must endure; but now that I am 
dead tliose dull thwacks that were scarcely audible in coun- 
try lanes have become stirring music in front of the 
brigade, and for every blow that you lay on my old great- 
coat, you will see a comrade stum])le and fall. 

Not long after the drums had passed the cafe, the 
Cigarette and the Aretliusa began to grow sleepy, and set 
out for the hotel, which was only a door or two away. But 
although we had been somewhat indifferent to Landrecies, 
Landrecies had not been indifferent to us. All day, we 
learned, people had been running out between the squalls 
to visit our two boats. Hundreds of persons, so said re- 
port, although it fitted ill with our idea of the town, — 
hundreds of persons had inspected them where they lay in a 
coal-shed. We were becoming lions in Landrecies, who 
had been only pedlars the night before in Pont. 

And now, when we left the cafe, we were pursued and 
overtaken at the hotel door by no less a person than the 
Juge de Paix ;^ a functionary, as far as I can make out, of 
the character of a Scotch Sheriff Substitut'^. He gave us 
his card and invited us to sup w^ith him on the spot, very 
neatly, very gracefully, as Frenchmen can do these things. 
It was for the credit of Landrecies, said he ; and although 
we knew very well how little credit we could do the place, 
we must have been churlish fellows to refuse an invitation 
so politely introduced. 

'^Jiipe (le Paix. Justice of the peace. — Scotch Sheriff Suhstitute. 
In Scotland, the sheriff, who is Ihe chief local judge of a county, is 
assisted by officers with judicial functions, called sheriffs-substitute. 



I 



AT LAXDRECIES 73 

The liouse of the judge was close by; it was a well- 
appointed bachelor's establishment, witli a curious collec- 
tion of old brass warming-pans upon the walls. Some of 
these were most elaborately carved. It seemed a pictur- 
esque idea for a collector. You could not help thinking 
how many nightcaps had wagged over these warming-pans 
in past generations; what jests may have been made and 
kisses taken while they were in service; and how often 
they had been uselessly paraded in the l)ed of death. If 
they could only speak, at what absurd, indecorous, and 
tragical scenes had they not been present? 

The wine was excellent. When we made the judge our 
compliments upon a bottle, "I do not give it you as my 
worst," said he. I wonder when Englishmen will learn 
these hospitable graces. They are worth learning; they 
set off life and make ordinary moments ornamental. 

There w^ere two other Landrecienses present. One was 
the collector of something or other, I forget what; the 
other, we were told, was the principal notary of the place. 
So it happened that we all five more or less followed the 
law. At this rate, the talk was pretty certain to become 
technical. The Cigarette expounded tlie poor laws very 
magisterially. And a little later I found myself laying 
down the Scotch law of illegitimacy, of which I am glad to 
say I know nothing. The collector and the notary, who 
were both married men, accused the judge, who was a 
bachelor, of having started the subject. He deprecated 
the charge, with a conscious, pleased air, just like all the 
men I have ever seen, be they French or English. How 
strange that we should all, in our unguarded moments, 
rather like to be thought a bit of a rogue with the women ! 

As the evening went on the wine grew more to my 
taste; the spirits proved better than the wine; the com- 
pany was genial. This was the highest water mark of 
popular favor on the whole cruise. After all, being in a 



74 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

judge's house, was there not something semi-official in tlie 
tribute? iVnd so, remembering what a great country 
France is, we did full justice to our entertainment." Lan- 
drecies had been a long while asleep before we returned to 
the hotel; and the sentries on the ramparts were already 
looking for daybrcalv. 



SAMBEE AND OISE CANAL 
CANAL BOATS 

Next day we made a hite start in the rain. The judge 
politely escorted us to the end of the lock under an um- 
brella. We had now brought ourselves to a pitch of hu- 
mility, in the matter of weather, not often attained except 
in the Scotch Highlands. A rag of blue sky or a glimpse 
of sunshine set our hearts singing; and when the rain was 
not heavy we counted the day almost fair. 

Long lines of barges lay one after another along the 
canal, many of them looking mighty spruce and ship-shape 
in their jerkin of Archangel tar^ picked out with white 
and green. Some carried gay iron railings and quite a 
parterre of flower-pots. Children played on the decks, as 
heedless of the rain as if they had been brought up on Loch 
Caron side; men fished over the gunwale, some of them 
under umbrellas; women did their washing; and every 
barge boasted its mongrel cur by way of watch-dog. Each 
one barked furiously at the canoes, running alongside un- 
til he had got to the end of his own ship, and so passing 
on the word to the dog aboard the next. AYe must have 
seen something like a hundred of these embarkations in 
the course of that day's paddle, ranged one after another 

'^ Archanficl tor. Tar is an important export of Archangel, the 
capital cf the most northern government of Russia. 



SAMBRE AND OISE CANAL 75 

like the houses in a street ; and from not one of them were 
we disappointed of this accompaniment. It was like visit- 
ing a menagerie, the Cigarette remarked. 

These little cities by the canal side had a very odd effect 
upon the mind. They seemed, with their flower-pots and 
smoking chimneys, their washings and dinners, a rooted 
piece of nature in the scene ; and yet if only the canal be- 
low were to open, one junk after another would hoist sail 
or harness horses and swim away into all parts of France; 
and the impromptu hamlet would separate, house by house, 
to the four winds. The childrerr who played together to- 
day by the Sambre and Oise Canal, each at his own father's 
threshold, when and Avhere might they next meet? 

For some time past the subject of barges had occupied 
ar great deal of our talk, and we had projected an old age 
on the canals of Europe. It was to be the most leisurely 
of progresses, now on a swift river at the tail of a steam- 
boat, now waiting horses for days together on some incon- 
siderable junction. We should be seen pottering on deck 
in all the dignity of years, our white beards falling into 
our laps. AVe were ever to be busied among paint-ix)ts, so 
that there should be no white fresher and no green more 
emerald than ours, in all the navy of the canals. There 
should be books in the cabin, and tobacco jars, and some 
old Burgundy as red as a November sunset and as odorous 
as a violet in April. There should be a flageolet whence 
the Cigarette, with cunning touch, should draw melting 
music under the stars ; or perhaps, laying that aside, up- 
raise his voice — somewhat thinner than of yore, and with 
here and there a quaver, or call it a natural grace note — in 
rich and solemn psalmody. 

All this simmering in my mind set me wishing to go 
aboard one of these ideal houses of lounging. I had plenty 
to choDse from, as I coasted one after another and the 
dogs bayed at me for a vagrant. At last I saw a nice old 



76 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

man and liis wife looking at me with some interest, so I 
gave them good day and pulled up alongside. I Ijegan 
with a remark upon their dog, which had somewhat the 
look of a pointer; thence I slid into a compliment on 
Madame^s flowers, and thence into a word in praise of 
their way of life. 

If you ventured on such an experiment in England 
you would get a slap in the face at once. The life would 
be shown to be a vile one, not without a side shot at your 
better fortune. Now, what I like so much in France is 
the clear, unflinching recognition by everybody of his own 
luck. They all know on which side their bread is buttered, 
and take a pleasure in showing it to others, which is surely 
the better part of religion. And they scorn to make a 
poor mouth over their povert}^ which I take to be the better 
part of manliness. I have heard a woman in quite a bet- 
ter position at home, with a good bit of money in hand, 
refer to her own child with a horrid whine as "a poor man's 
child." I would not say such a thing to the Duke of West- 
minster.^ And the French' are full of this spirit of inde- 
pendence. Perhaps it is the result of republican institu- 
tions, as they call them. Much more likely it is because 
there are so few people really poor that the whiners are not 
enough to keep each other in countenance. 

The people on the barge were delighted to hear that I 
admired their state. They understood perfectly well, they 
told me, how Monsieur envied them. \Vithout doubt Mon- 
sieur was rich, and in that case he might make a canal- 
boat as pretty as a villa — joli com me un chateau. And 
with that they invited me on board their own water villa. 
They apologized for their cabin ; they had not been rich 
enough to make it as it ought to be. 

'The fire should have been here, at this side," explained 

1 The Duke of Westminster is onp of the wealthy lancllords of 
London. 



SAMBEE AND OISE CANAL 77 

the husband. "Then one might have a writing-table in the 
middle — books — and" (comprehensively) "all. It would 
be quite coquettish — i;a sera it tout-d-fait coquet/' And he 
looked about him as thougli the improvements were already 
made. It was plainly not the first time that he had thus 
beautified his cabin in imagination; and when next he 
makes a hit, I should expect to see the writing-table in the 
middle. 

Madame had three birds in a cage. They were no great 
thing, she explained. Fine birds were so dear. They had 
fcought to get a Hollandais last winter in liouen (Rouen, 
thought I; and is this whole mansion, with its dogs, and 
birds, and smoking chimneys, so far a traveller as that, 
and as homely an object among the cliffs and orchards of 
the Seine as on the green plains of Sambre?) — they had 
sought to get a Hollandais last M'inter in Iiouen ; but these 
cost fifteen francs apiece — picture it — fifteen francs ! 

'Tour un tout petit oiseau — For quite a little bird/' 
added the husband. 

As I continued to admire, the apologetics died away, 
and the good people began to brag of their barge and their 
happy condition in life, as if they had been Emperor and 
Einpress of the Indies. It was, in the Scotch phrase, a 
good hearing, and put me in good-humor with the world. 
If people knew what an inspiriting thing it is to hear a 
man boasting, so long as he boasts of what he really has, 
I believe they would do it more freely and with a better 
grace. 

They began to ask about our voyage. You should have 
seen how they sympathized. They seemed half ready to 
give up their barge and follow us. But these canal etti^ are 
only gypsies semi-domesticated. The semi-domestication 
came out in rather a pretty form. Suddenly Madame's 

1 Canoletti, an Italian woid, moans '"little canals.*' Stevenson usos- it 
in the sense of "canal-mcu." 



78 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

brow darkened. '^Cepcndant,"^ slic began, and then 
stopped; and then began again by asking me if I were 
single. 

"Yes," said I. 

"And 3^our friend who went by just now?" 

He also was unmarried. 

Oh, then, all was well. She could not have wives left 
alone at home; but since there were no wives in the ques- 
tion, we were doing the best we could. 

"To see about one in the world," said the husband, "il 
ny a que ca — there is nothing else worth while. A man, 
look you, who sticks in his ow^n village like a bear," he w^ent 
on, "very well, he sees nothing. And then death is the end 
of all. And he has seen nothing." 

Madame reminded her husband of an Englishman who 
had come up this canal in a steamer. 

"Perhaps Mr. Moens in the Ytene," I suggested. 

"That's it," assented the husband. "He had his wife and 
family with him, and servants. He came ashore at all the 
locks and asked the name of the villages, whether from 
boatmen or lock-keepers; and then he wrote, wrote them 
down. Oh, he wrote enormously ! I suppose it was a 
wager." 

A wager was a common enough explanation for our own 
exploits, but jt seemed an original reason for taking notes. 



THE OISE IN FLOOD 

Before nine next morning the two canoes were installed 
on a light country cart at Etreux ; and we were soon fol- 
lowing them along the side of a pleasant valley full of 
hop-gardens and poplars. Agreeable villages lay here and 
there on the slope of the hill : notably Tupigny, with the 

^ "Cependant." "However." 



THE OISE IN FLOOD 79 

liop-poles lianging their garlands in the very street, and the 
houses clustered with grapes. There was a faint enthusi- 
asm on our- passage ; weavers put their heads to the win- 
dows ; children cried out in ecstasy at sight of the two 
"boaties" — harquettes; and bloused pedestrians, who were 
acquainted with our charioteer, jested with him on the 
nature of his freight. 

We had a shower or two, but liglit and flying. The air 
was clean and SAveet among all these green fields and green 
things growing. There was not a touch of autumn in the 
weather. And when, at Vadencourt, we launched from a 
little lawn opposite a mill, the sun broke forth and set all 
the leaves shining in the valley of the Oise. 

The river was swollen with the long rains. From 
Vadencourt all the way to Origny it ran with ever-quick- 
ening speed, taking fresh heart at each mile, and racing 
as though it already smelt the sea. The water was yellow 
and turbulent, swung with an angry eddy among half-sub- 
merged willows, and made an angry clatter along stony 
shores. The course kept turning and turning in a narrow 
and well-timbered valley. Now the river would approach 
the side, and run gliding along the chalky base of the hill, 
and show us a few open colza fields among the trees. Now 
it would skirt the garden-walls of houses, where we might 
catch a glimpse through a doorway, and see a priest pacing 
in the checkered sunlight. Again, the foliage closed so 
thickly in front that there seemed to be no issue; only a 
thicket of willows ovei'topped by elms and poplars, under 
which the river ran flush and fleet, and where a kingfisher 
flew past like a piece of the blue sky. On these different 
manifestations the sun poured its clear and catholic looks. 
The shadows lay as solid on the swift surface of the stream 
as on the stable meadows. The light sparkled golden in 
the dancing poplar leaves, and brought the hills into com- 
munion with our eyes. And all the while the river never 



so AN INLAND A^OYAGE 

stoiopecl running or took breath; and the reeds along the 
whole valley stood shivering from top to toe. 

There should be some myth (but if there is, I know it 
not) founded on the shivering of the reeds. There are not 
many things in nature more striking to man's eye. It is 
such an eloquent pantomime of terror; and to see such a 
number of terrified creatures taking sanctuary in every 
nook along the shore is enough to infect a silly human 
with alarm. Perhaps they are only acold, and no wonder, 
standing waist deep in the stream. Or, perhaps, they 
have never got accustomed to the speed and fury of the 
river's flux, or the miracle of its continuous body. Pan^ 
once played upon their forefathers; and so, by the hands 
of his river, he still plays upon these later generations 
down all the valley of the Oise ; and plays the same air, 
both sweet and shrill, to tell us of the beauty and the ter- 
ror of the world. 

The canoe was like a leaf in the current. It took it up 
and shook it, and carried it masterfully away, like a Cen- 
taur carrying off a nymph. To keep some command on our 
direction required hard and diligent plying of the paddle. 
The river was in such a hurry for the sea ! Every drop of 
water ran in a panic, like so many people in a frightened 
crowd. But what crowd was ever so numerous or so sin- 
gle-minded? All the objects of sight went by at a dance 
measure; the eyesight raced with the racing river; the 
exigencies of every moment kept the pegs screwed so tight 
that our being quivered like a well-tuned instrument, and 
ihe blood shook off its lethargy, and trotted through all the 
highways and byways of the veins and arteries, and in and 
out of the heart, as if circulation were but a holiday jour- 
ney and not the daily moil of threescore years and ten. 



1 Pan. The god of pastures, forests, flocks, and shepherds. He is 
frequeutly represented as playing upon the syrinx, or Pan's pipes, an 
inritrument made of reeds of graduated lengths. 



THE OISE IN FLOOD 81 

The reeds might nod their heads in warning, and witli 
tremulous gestures tell how the river was as cruel as it was 
strong and cold, and how death lurked in the eddy under- 
neath the wallows. But the reeds had to stand where they 
were; and those who stand still are always timid advisers. 
As for us, we could have shouted aloud. If this lively and 
beautiful river were, indeed, a thing of death's contrivance, 
the old ashen rogue had famously outwitted himself with 
us. I w^as living three to the minute. I was scoring points 
against him every stroke of my paddle, every turn of the 
stream. I have rarely had better profit of my life. 

For I think we may look upon our little private war with 
death somewhat in this light. If a man knows he will 
sooner or later be robbed upon a journey, he will have a 
bottle of the best in every inn, and look upon all his ex- 
travagances as so much gained upon the thieves. And 
above all, where, instead of simply spending, he makes a 
profitable investment for some of his money, when it will 
be out of risk of loss. So every bit of brisk living, and 
al)Ove all when it is healthful, is just so much gained upon 
the wholesale filcher, death. We sliall have the less in our 
pockets, the more in our stomachs, when he cries. Stand 
and deliver. A swift stream is a favorite artifice of his, 
and one that brings him in a comfortable thing per annum ; 
but when he and I come to settle our accounts I shall whis- 
tle in his face for these hours upon the upper Oise. 

Towards afternoon we got fairly drunken with the sun- 
shine and the exhilaration of the pace. We could no longer 
contain ourselves and our content. The canoes were too 
small for us; we must be out and stretch ourselves on shore. 
And so in a green meadow we bestowed our limbs on tlie 
grass, and smoked deifying tobacco, and proclaimed tliG 
world excellent. It was the last good hour of the day, 
and I dwell upon it witli extreme complacency. 



82 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

On one side of the valle}^ high upon the chalky summit 
of the hill, a ploughman with his team appeared and dis- 
appeared at regular intervals. At each revelation he stood 
still for a few seconds against the sky, for all the world 
(as the Cigarette declared) like a toy Burns^ who had just 
ploughed up the Mountain Daisy. He was the only living 
thing within view, unless we are to count the river. 

On the other side of the valley a group of red roofs and 
a belfry showed among the foliage. Thence some inspired 
bell-ringer made the afternoon musical on a chime of bells. 
There w^as something very sweet and taking in the air he 
played, and we thought we had never heard bells speak so 
intelligently or sing so melodiously as these. It must have 
been to some such measure that the spinners and the young 
maids sang, "Come away. Death,''- in the Shakespearian 
Illyria. There is so often a threatening note, something 
blatant and metallic, in the voice of bells, that I believe we 
have fully more pain than pleasure from hearing them ; 
but these, as they sounded abroad, now high, now low, 
now with a plaintive cadence that caught the ear like the 
burden of a popular song, w^ere always moderate and tun- 
able, and seemed to fall in with the spirit of still, rustic 
places, like the noise of a waterfall oi' the babble of a 
rookery in spring. I could have asked the bell-ringer for 
his blessing, good, sedate old man, who swung the rope 
so gently to the time of his meditations. I could have 
blessed the priest or the heritors, or whoever may be con- 
cerned with such affairs, in France, who had left these 
sweet old bells to gladden the afternoon, and not held meet- 
ings, and made collections, and had their names repeatedly 

ij. toy Burns, etc. The reference is to Robert Burns's poem entitled 
To a Mountain Daisif. 

^"Come aioay, Death." See Shakspere's Ttcelfth Night, Act. II, sc. iv, 
11. 56-67. The scene of the play is "A city in illyria and a sea coast 
near it." 



THE OISE IN FLOOD 83 

printed in the local paper, to rig up a peal of brand-new, 
brazen, Birmingham-hearted^ substitutes, who should bom- 
bard their sides to the provocation of a brand-new bell- 
ringer, and fill the echoes of the valley with terror and 
riot. 

At last the bells ceased, and with their note the sun 
withdrew. The piece was at an end; shadow and silence 
possessed the valley of the Oise. We took to the paddle 
with glad hearts, like people who have sat out a noble 
joerformance and return to work. The river was more dan- 
gerous here; it ran swifter, the eddies were more sudden 
and violent. All the way down we had had our fill of 
difficulties. Sometimes it was a weir which could be shot, 
sometimes one so shallow and full of stakes that we must 
withdraw the boats from the water and carry them round. 
But the chief sort of obstacle was a consequence of the late 
high winds. Every two or three hundred yards a tree had 
fallen across the river, and usually involved more than an- 
other in its fall. Often there was free water at the end, 
and we could steer round the leafy promontory and hear 
the water sucking and bubbling among the twigs. Often, 
again, when the tree reached from bank to bank, there was 
room, by lying close, to shoot through underneath, canoe 
and all. Sometimes it was necessary to get out upon the 
trunk itself and pull the boats across; and sometimes, 
where the stream was too impetuous for this, there was 
nothing for it but to land and "carry over." This made a 
fine series of accidents in the day's career, and kept us 
aware of ourselves. 

Shortly after our re-embarkation, while I was leading 
by a long way, and still full of a noble, exulting spirit in 
honor of the sun, the swift pace, and the church bells, the 

'^Birmingham-hearted. Birmingham, a city in Warwickshire, Eng- 
land, is noted for metal manufactures. 



g4 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

river made one of its leonine pounces round a corner, and 
I was aware of another fallen tree within a stone-cast. I 
had my back-board down in a trice, and aimed for a place 
where the trunk seemed high enough above the w^ater, and 
the branches not too thick to let me slip below. When a 
man has just vowed eternal brotherhood with the universe 
he is not in a temper to take great determinations coolly, 
and this, which might have been a very important determi- 
nation for me, had not been taken under a happy star. 
The tree caught me about the chest, and while I was yet 
struggling to make less of myself and get through, the 
river took the matter out of my hands and bereaved me of 
my l)oat. The Arethusa swung round broadside on, leaned 
over, ejected so much of me as still remained on board, and, 
thus disencumbered, whipped under the tree, righted, and 
went merrily away down stream. 

I do not know how long it was before I scrambled on to 
the tree to which I was left clinging, but it was longer than 
I cared about. My thoughts were of a grave and almost 
sombre character, but I still clung to my paddle. The 
stream ran away with my heels as fast as I could pull up 
my shoulders, and I seemed, by the weight, to have all the 
water of the Oise in my trousers pockets. You can never 
know, till you try it, what a dead pull a river makes against 
a man. Death himself had me by the heels, for this was 
his last ambuscade, and he must now join personally in the 
fray. And still I held to my paddle. At last I dragged 
myself on to my stomach on the trunk, and lay there a 
breathless sop, with a mingled sense of humor and injus- 
tice. A poor figure I must have presented to Burns upon 
the hill-top with his team. But there was the paddle in my 
hand. On my tomb, if ever I have one, I mean to get these 
words inscribed: "He clung to his paddle." 

The Cigarette had gone past awhile before; for, as I 



THE OISE IN FLOOD 85 

might have observed, if I had been a little less pleased with 
the universe at the moment, there was a clear way round 
the tree-top at the farther side. He had offered his serv- 
ices to haul me out, but, as I was then alread}^ on my 
elbows, I had declined, and sent him down stream after 
the truant Arethiisa. The stream was too rapid for a man 
to mount with one canoe, let alone two, upon his hands. 
So I crawled along the trunk to shore, and proceeded down 
the meadows by the river-side. I was so cold that my 
heart was sore. I had now an idea of my own why the 
reeds so bitterly shivered. I could have given any of them 
a lesson. The Cigarette, remarked, facetiously, that he 
thought I was "taking exercise" as I drew near, until he 
made out for certain that I was only twittering with cold. 
I had a rub-down with a towel, and donned a dry suit 
from the india-rubber bag. But I was not my own man 
again for the rest of the voyage. I had a queasy sense 
that I wore my last dry clothes upon my body. The strug- 
gle had tired me; and, perhaps, whether I knew it or not, 
I was a little dashed in spirit. The devouring element in 
the universe had leaped out against me, in tliis green val- 
ley quickened ])y a running stream. The bells were all 
very pretty in their way, but I had heard some of the 
hollow notes of Pan's music. Would the wicked river 
drag me down by the heels, indeed ? and look so beauti- 
ful all the time ? Nature's good-humor was only skin deep, 
after all. 

There was still a long way to go by the winding course 
of the stream, and darkness had fallen, and a late bell 
was ringing in Origny Sainte-Benoite when we arrived. 



86 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE 
A BY-DAY 

The next day was Sunday, and the church bells had 
little rest; indeed, I do not think I remember anywhere 
else so great a choice of services as were here offered to the 
devout. And while the bells made merry in the sunshine, 
all the world with his dog was out shooting among the 
beets and colza. 

In the morning a hawker and his wife went down the 
street at a foot-pace, singing to a very slow, lamentable 
music, "0 France, mes amours/'^ It brought everybody to 
the door; and when our landlady called in the man to buy 
the words, he had not a copy of them left. She was not 
the first nor the second who had been taken with the song. 
There is something very pathetic in the love of the French 
people, since the war, for dismal patriotic music-making. 
I have watched a forester from Alsace while some one was 
singing, ''Les malheurs de la France/'^ at a baptismal 
party in the neighborhood of Fontainebleau. He arose 
from the table and took his son aside, close by where I was 
standing. ^'Listen, listen," he said, bearing on the boy's 
shoulder, "and remember this, my son." A little after he 
went out into the garden suddenly, and I could hear him 
sobbing in the darkness. 

The humiliation of their arms and the loss of Alsace 
and Lorraine^ made a sore pull on the endurance of this 
sensitive people ; and their hearts are still hot, not so much 
against Germany as against the Empire. In what other 

i^'O France, mes amours." "O France, my loves." 
2 ''Les malheurs de France." "The ills of France." 
^Alsace and Lorraine now constitute an imperial territory of the 
German empire. Tliey were ceded by France to Germany in 1871 as a 
result of the I'ranco-German war, which had been needlessly precipi- 
tated by the Second French Empire through a desire to acquire 
territory and to revive the former military prestige of France. The 
cession caused great and lasting bitterness among the French. 



ORIGNY SAINTE-BEXOITE 87 

country will you find a patriotic ditty bring all the world 
into the street ? But altliction heightens love ; and we shall 
ne\er know we are Englishmen until we have lost India. 
Independent America is still the cross of my existence; I 
cannot think of Farmer George^ without abhorrence; and 
1 never feel more warmly to my own land than when I see 
the stars and stripes, and remember what our empire might 
have been. 

The hawker's little book, which I purchased, was a curi- 
ous mixture. Side by side with the flippant, rowdy non- 
sense of the Paris music-halls there were many pastoral 
pieces, not without a touch of poetr}^ I thought, and in- 
stinct with the brave independence of the poorer class in 
France. There you might read how the wood-cutter gloried 
iii his axe, and the gardener scorned to be ashamed of his 
spade. It was not very well written, this poetiy of labor, 
but the pluck of the sentiment redeemed what was weak 
or wordy in the expression. The martial and the patriotic 
pieces, on the other hand, were tearful, womanish produc- 
tions one and all. The poet had passed under the Caudine 
Forks- he sang for an army visiting the lomb of its old 
renown, with arms reversed; and sang not of victory, but 
of death. There was a number in the hawker's collection 
called Consents FranQCiis,^ which ma}^ rank among the 
most dissuasive war-lyrics on record. It would not be 
possible to fight at all in such a spirit. The bravest con- 
script would turn pale if such a ditty were struck up beside 
him on the morning of l^attle ; and whole regiments would 
pile their arms to its tune. 



^Fanner George. A nicknnme appUed to George III of England. 
He is said to have actually made money from a farm near Windsor. 

2 the Caudine Forks. In the Second Samnite War the Roman army 
was caught in a defile called the Caudine Forks and was compelled to 
surrender to the Samnite general. Pontius. 

^ Conscrits Fraiii-ais. Frouch conscripts. 



88 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

If Fletcher of Saltoim^ is in the right about the influ- 
ence of national songs, you would say France was come to 
a poor pass. But the thing will work its own cure, and a 
sound-hearted and courageous people weary at length of 
snivelling over their disasters. Already Paul Deroulede- 
has written some manly military verses. There is not much 
of the trumpet note in them, perhaps, to stir a man's heart 
in his bosom ; they lack the lyrical elation, and move slowly ; 
but they are written in a grave, honorable, stoical spirit, 
which should carry soldiers far in a good cause. One feels 
as if one would like to trust Deroulede with something. 
It will be happy if he can so far inoculate his fellow- 
countrymen that they may be trusted with their own fu- 
ture. And, in the mean time, here is an antidote to 
"French Conscripts" and much other doleful versifica- 
tion. 

We had left the boats over night in the custody of one 
whom we shall call Carnival. I did not properly catch his 
name, and perhaps that was not unfortunate for him, as I 
am not in a position to hand him down with honor to pos- 
terity. To this person's premises we strolled in the course 
of the day, and found quite a little deputation inspecting 
the canoes. There was a stout gentleman with a knowl- 
edge of the river, which he seemed eager to impart. There 
was a very elegant young gentleman in a black coat, with a 
smattering of English, who led the talk at once to the Ox- 
ford and Cambridge boat race. And then there were three 
handsome girls from fifteen to twenty; and an old gentle- 
man in a blouse, with no teeth to speak of, and a strong 

''^ Fletcher of Saltoun. Andrew Fletclier, a Scotch political writer, 
born at Saltoun, in East Lothian, in the middle of the seventeenth 
century. The allusion is to a passage in one of his political works ; 
". . . if a man were allowed to make all the ballads, he need not care 
who should make the laws of a country." 

• PavJ DerouU'de. A French writer whose plays and poems owed 
their success chiefly to the burning hatred which they expressed 
against the Germans. He served in the Franco-rrussian wnr. 



ORIGXY SAIXTE-BENOITS 89 

country accent. Quite the pick of Origny, I should sup- 
pose. 

The Cigarette had some mysteries to perform with his 
rigging in the coach-house; so I was left to do the parade 
single-handed. I found myself very much of a hero 
whether I would or not. The girls were full of little shud- 
derings over the dangers of our journey. And 1 thought it 
would be ungallant not to take my cue from the ladies. 
My mishap of yesterday, told in an off-hand way, produced 
a deep sensation. It was Othello over again, with no less 
than three Desdemonas and a sprinkling of sympathetic 
senators in the background.^ Xever were the canoes more 
flattered, or flattered more adroitly. 
- "It is like a violin," cried one of the girls in an ecstasy. 

"I thank you for the word, mademoiselle," said I. "All 
the more since there are people who call out to me that it is 
like a coffin." 

"Oh ! but it is really like a violin. It is finished like a 
violin," she went on. 

"And polished like a violin," added a senator. 

"One has only to stretch the cords," concluded another, 
"and then tum-tumty-tum" ; he imitated the result with 
spirit. 

Was not this a graceful little ovation ? AYhere this peo- 
ple finds the secret of its pretty speeches I cannot imagine, 
unless the secret should be no other than a sincere desire 
to please. But then no disgrace is attached in France to 
saying a thing neatly; whereas in England, to talk like a 
book is to give in one's resignation to society. 

The old gentleman in the blouse stole into the coach- 
house, and somewhat irrelevantly informed the Cigarette 



1 It was Othello over again, etc. See Shakspei-e's Othello, Act I, 
sc. iii. 11. 138-170. — "She [IJesdemona] loved me for the dangers I had 
passed." 



90 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

that he was the father of the three girls and four more; 
quite an exploit for a Frenchman. 

"You are very fortunate/^ answered the Cigarette po- 
litely. 

And the old gentleman, having apparently gained his 
point, stole away again. 

We all got very friendly together. The girls proposed 
to start with iis on the morrow, if you please. And, jesting 
apart, every one was anxious to know the hour of our de- 
parture. Now, when you are going to crawl into your canoe 
from a bad launch, a crowd, however friendly, is undesir- 
able, and so we told them not before twelve, and mentally 
determined to be off by ten at latest. 

Towards evening we went abroad again to post some 
letters. It was cool and pleasant; the long village was 
quite empty, except for one or two urchins who followed 
us as they might have followed a menagerie ; the hills and 
the tree-tops looked in from all sides through the clear air, 
and the bells were chiming for yet another service. 

Suddenly we sighted the three girls, standing, with a 
fourth sister, in front of a shop on the wide selvage of the 
roadway. We had been very merry with them a little 
while ago, to be sure. But what was the etiquette of 
Origny ? Had it been a country road, of course we should 
have spoken to them; but here, under the eyes of all the 
gossips, ought we to do even as much as bow ? I consulted 
the Cigarette. 

''Look,'' said he. 

I looked. There were the four girls on the same spot ; 
but now four backs were turned to us, very upright and 
conscious. Corporal Modesty had given the word of com- 
mand, and the well-disciplined picket had gone right-about- 
face like a single person. They maintained this formation 
all the while we were in sight ; but we heard them tittering 
among themselves, and the girl whom we had not met 



ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE 9X 

Jauglied with open mouth, and even looked over her 
shoulder at the enemy. I wonder was it altogether mod- 
esty after all, or in part a sort of country proVocation ? 

As we were returning to the inn we beheld something 
floating in the ample field of golden evening sky, above the 
chalk cliffs and the trees that grow along their summit. 
It was too high up, too large, and too steady for a kite; 
and, as it was dark, it could not be a star. For, although 
a star were as black as ink and as rugged as a walnut, so 
ampl}^ does the sun bathe heaven witli radiance that it 
would sparkle 'like a point of light for us. The village was 
dotted with people with their heads in air; and the chil- 
dren were in a bustle all along the street and far up the 
straight road that climbs the hill, where we could still see 
them running in loose knots. It was a balloon, we learned, 
which had left Saint Quentin at half past five that evening. 
Mighty composedly the majority of the grown people took 
it. But we were English, and were soon running up the 
hill with the best. Being travelers ourselves in a small 
wa}^ we would fain have seen these other travelers alight. 

The spectacle was over by the time we gained the top 
of the hill. All the gold had withered out of the sky, and 
the balloon had disappeared. Whithe]'? I ask myself; 
caught up into the seventh heaven ? or come safely to land 
somewhere in that blue, uneven distance, into which the 
roadway dipped and melted before our eyes ? Probably the 
aeronauts were already warming themselves at a farm 
chimney, for they say it is cold in these unhomely regions 
of the air. The night fell swiftly. Eoadside trees and 
disappointed sightseers, returning through the meadows, 
stood out in black against a margin of low red sunset. 
It was cheerfuller to face the other way, and so down the 
hill we went, with a full moon, the color of a melon, 
swinging high above the wooded valley, and the white clilfs 
behind us faintlv reddened bv the fire of the chalk-kilns. 



92 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

The lamps were iightetl^ and the salads were being made 
in Origny Sainte-Benoite by the river. 



OEIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE 
THE COMPANY AT TABLE 

Although we came late for dinner, the company at 
table treated ns to sparkling wine. 'That is how we are 
in France/^ said one. "Those who sit down with us are 
our friends." And the rest applauded. 

They were three altogether, and an odd trio to pass the 
Sunday with. 

Two of them were guests like ourselves, both men of the 
north. One ruddy, and of a full habit of body, with copious 
black hair and beard, the intrepid hunter of France, who 
thought nothing so small, not even a lark or a minnow, 
but he might vindicate his prowess by its capture. For 
such a great, healthy man, his hair flourishing like Sam- 
son's, his arteries running buckets of red blood, to boast 
of these infinitesimal exploits, produced a feeling of dis- 
proportion in the w^orld, as when a steam-hammer is set to 
cracking nuts. The other was a quiet, sul)dued person, 
blond, and lymphatic, and sad, with something the look of 
a Dane: "Tristcs tetes de DanoisT'^ as Gaston Lafenestre 
used to say. 

1 must not let that name go by without a word for the 
best of all good fellows, now gone down into the dust. We 
shall never again see Gaston in his forest costume, — he 
was Gaston with all the world, in affection, not in disre- 
spect, — nor hear him wake the echoes of Fontainebleau- 

'^"Trisiefi ieies de Danois." Sad Danish countenances. 
/^ Fontainehleau. A town thirty-seven miles southeast of Paris. The 
palace of Fontainebleau was for centuries one of the chief places of 
residence of the French kings. The forest, which is among the most 
beautiful in France, has become the resort of many artists, notably 
those of the modern French school of landscape painters.. 



OEIGNY SAINTE-BEXOTTE 93 

with the woodland liorn. Never again shall his kind smile 
put peace among all races of artistic men, and make the 
Englishman at home in France. Xever more shall the 
sheep, who were not more innocent at heart than he, sit 
all unconsciously for his industrious pencil. He died too 
early, at the very moment when he was heginning to put 
forth fresh sprouts and blossom into something worthy of 
himself; and yet none who knew him will think he lived 
in vain. I never knew a man so little, for whom yet I had 
so much affection ; and I find it a good test of others, how 
much they had learned to understand and value him. His 
was, indeed, a good influence in life while he was still 
among us; he had a fresh laugh; it did you good to see 
him ; and, however sad he may have been at heart, he al- 
ways bore a bold and cheerful countenance and took for- 
tune's worst as it were the showers of spring. But now 
his mother sits alone by the side of rontaine])leau woods, 
where he gathered mushrooms in his hardy and penurious 
youth. 

Many of his pictures found their way across the chan- 
nel ; besides those which were stolen, when a dastardly 
Yankee left him alone in I^ondon with two English pence, 
and, perhaps, twice as many words of English. If any one 
who reads these lines should have a scene of sheep, in the 
manner of Jacques,^ with this fine creature's signature, 
let him tell himself that one of the kindest and bravest 
of men has lent a hand to decorate his lodging. There 
may be better pictures in the National Gallery; but not a 
painter among the generations had a better heart. Precious 
in the sight of the Lord of humanity, the Psalms tell us, 
is the death of his saints. It had need to be precious; for 

^Jacqties. Charles Emile Jacques, a French painter of landscape 
and animals, particularly of cows and sheep. "His inns, his farms, 
and poultry yards . . . are full of the familiar sentiment of life. 
. . . Not less does he catch the distinctive detail of the movement, 
action, attitude, and relations of animals." — C. 11. Stranahan : 
A History of French Painting. 



94 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

it is very costly, when, by a stroke, a mother is left deso- 
latQ, and the peace-maker and peace-looker of a whole so- 
ciety is laid in the ground with Caesar and the Twelve 
Apostles. 

There is something lacking among the oaks of Fontaine- 
hleau ; and when the dessert comes in at Barbizon/ people 
look to the door for a figure that is gone. 

The tliird of our companions at Origny was no less a 
person than the landlady's husband ; not properly the land- 
lord, since he worked himself in a factory during the day, 
and came to his own house at evening as a guest; a man 
worn to skin and bone by perpetual excitement, with bald- 
ish head, sharp features, and swift, shining eyes. On Satur- 
day, describing some paltry adventure at a duck-hunt, he 
broke a plate into a score of fragments. Whenever he made 
a remark he would look all round the table with his chin 
raised and a spark of green light in either eye, seeking 
approval. His wife appeared now and again in the door- 
way of the room, where she was superintending dinner, 
with a ''Henri, you forget yourself,^' or a "Henri, you can 
surely talk without making such a noise." Indeed, that 
was what the honest fellow could not do. On the most 
trifling matter his eyes kindled, his fist visited the table, 
and his voice rolled abroad in changeful thunder. I never 
saw such a petard of a man; I think the devil was in 
him. He had two favorite expressions, ''It is logical," or 
illogical, as the case might be; and this other thrown out 
with a certain bravado, as a man might unfurl a banner, 
at the beginning of many a long and sonorous story : "I 
am a proletarian, you see." Indeed, we saw it very well. 
V God forbid that ever I should find him handling a gun in 
Paris streets. That will not be a good moment for the 
general public. 

1 BarMzon. A small village near the forest, a favorite haunt of 
artists. 



UKiGNr SAINTE-BENOITE 95 

I thought liis two phrases very much represented the 
good and evil of his class, and, to some extent, of his coun- 
try. It is a strong thing to say what one is, and not he 
ashamed of it; even although it he in douhtful taste to 
repeat the statement too often in one evening. I should 
not admire it in a duke, of course ; but as times go the trait 
is lionorable in a workman. On the other hand, it is not 
at all a strong thing to put one's reliance upon logic; and 
our own logic particularly, for it is generally wrong. We 
never know where we are to end if once we begin following 
words or doctors. There is an upright stock in a man's 
own heart that is trustier tlian any syllogism; and the 
eyes, and the sympathies, and appetites know a thing or 
two that have never yet been stated in controversy. Rea- 
sons are as plentiful as blackberries; and, like fisticuifs, 
they serve impartially with all sides. Doctrines do not 
stand or fall by their proofs, and are only logical in so far 
as they are cleverly put. An able controversialist no more 
than an able general demonstrates the justice of his cause. 
But France is all gone wandering after one or two big 
words; it will take some time before they can be satisfied 
that they are no more than words, however big ; and, when 
once that is done, they will perhaps find logic less divert- 
ing. 

The conversation opened with details of the da3^'s shoot- 
ing. When all the sportsmen of a village shoot over the 
village territory pro indiriso,^ it is plain that many ques- 
tions of etiquette and priority must arise. 

"Here now," cried the landlord, brandishing a plate, 
*^here is a field of beet-root. Well. Here am I, then. I 
advance, do I not? EJl hien! sacristi" ;- and the statement, 
waxing louder, rolls off into a reverberation of oaths, the 

1 Pro indh-iso. Latin, Each for himself. 
^^'Eh Men! sacristi." "WeU, by gad!" 



96 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

speaker glaring about for sympathy, and everybody nod- 
ding his head to him in the name of peace. 

The ruddy Northman tohl some tales of his own prowess 
in keeping order : notably one of a Marquis. 

"Marquis," I said, "if you take another step I fire upon 
you. You have committed a dirtiness, Marquis." 

AV hereupon, it appeared, the Marquis touched his cap 
and withdrew. 

The landlord applauded noisily. "It was well done," he 
said. "He did all that he could. He admitted he was 
wrong." And then oath upon oath. He was no marquis- 
lover, either, but he had a sense of justice in him, this 
proletarian host of ours. 

From the matter of hunting, the talk veered into a gen- 
eral comparison of Paris and tlie country. The proletarian 
beat the table like a drum in praise of Paris. "What is 
Paris? Paris is the cream of France. There are no Pa- 
risians; it is you, and I, and everybody who are Parisians. 
A man has eighty chances per cent to get on in the world 
in l^iris." And he drew a vivid sketch of the workman in 
a den no bigger than a dog-hutch, making articles that were 
to go all over the world. Eli hicn, quoi, c'est magnifique, 
QCi!'''^ cried he. 

l^he sad Northman interfered in praise of a peasant's 
life ; he thought Paris bad for men and women. "Cen- 
tralization," said he — 

But the landlord was at his throat in a moment. It was 
all logical, he showed him, and all magnificent. "What a 
spectacle ! What a glance for an eye !" And the dishes 
reeled upon the table under a cannonade of blows. 

Seeking to make peace, I threw in a word in praise of 
the liberty of opinion in France. I could hardly have shot 
more amiss. There was an instant silence and a great 
wagging of significant heads. They did not fancy the sub- 

"^Bh JjieUj quoi, c'cst magnifique, ga." "Well, I guess that's fine." 



ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE 97 

ject, it was plain, but tlie}^ gave me to understand that the 
sad Northman was a mart}'! on account of his views. "Ask 
him a bit/' said they. ."Just ask him." 

"Yes, sir," said he in liis quiet way, answering me, al- 
tliougli I had not spoken, "I am afraid there is less liberty 
of opinion in France than you may imagine." And with 
that he dropped his eyes and seemed to consider the sub- 
ject at an end. 

Our curiosity was mightily excited at this. How, or 
why, or when was this lymphatic bagman martyred ? We 
concluded at once it was on some religious question, and 
brushed up our memories of the Inquisition,^ which were 
principally drawn from Poe's horrid story, and the ser- 
mon in Tristram Shandy, I believe." 

On the morrow we had an opportunity of going further 
into the question ; for when we rose very early to avoid a 
sympathizing deputation at our departure, we found the 
hero up before us. He was breaking his fast on white wine 
and raw onions, in order to keep up the character of mar- 
tyr, I conclude. AYe had a long conversation, and made 
out what we wanted ki spite of his reserve. But here was 
a truly curious circumstance. It seems possible for two 
Scotchmen and a Frenchman to discuss during a long half- 
hour, and each nationality have a different idea in view 
throughout. It was not till the very end that we discov- 
ered his heresy had been political, or that he suspected our 
mistake. The terms and spirit in which he spoke of his 
political beliefs were, in our eyes, suited to religious be- 
liefs. And vice versa. 



1 ihc Inquisition. A court for the trial and punishment of heretics. 
The punishments were often excessively cruel. Poe's horrid story is 
The Pit and the Pendulum. 

^ the sermon in Tristram Shandy. The passage referred to occurs in 
The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, by Laurence Sterne : "Go 
with me for a moment into the prisons of the Inquisition. — Behold 
Religion, with Mcrey and Justice chained down under Irpr feet,— there 
sitting ghastly upon a black tribunal, propped up with racks and 
instruments of torment," etc. 



98 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

Nothing could be more characteristic of the two coun- 
tries. Politics are the religion of France ; as N^anty Ewart^ 
would have said, ^'A d — d bad religion/^ while we, at home, 
keep most of our bitterness for all differences about a 
hymn-book or a Hebrew word which, perhaps, neither of 
the parties can translate. And perhaps the misconception 
is typical of many others that may never be cleared up ; 
not only between people of different race, but between 
those of different sex. 

As for our friend's martyrdom, he was a Communist, or 
perhaps only a Communard, which is a very different thing, 
and had lost one or more situations in consequence. I think 
he had also been rejected in marriage ; but perhaps he had 
a sentimental way of considering business which deceived 
me. He was a mild, gentle creature, anyway, and 1 hope 
he has got a better situation and married a more suitable 
wife since then. 



DOWN THE OISE 
TO MOY 

Carnival notoriously cheated us at first. Finding us 
easy in our ways, he regretted having let us off so cheapl}^, 
and, taking me aside, told me a cock-and-bull story, with 
the moral of another five francs for the narrator. The 
thing was palpably absurd; but I paid up, and at once 
dropped all friendliness of manner and kept him in his 
place as an inferior, with freezing British dignity. He 
saw in a moment that he had gone too far and killed a 
willing horse; his face fell; I am sure he would have re- 
funded if he could only have thought of a decent pretext. 
He wished me to drink Avith him, l)ut I would none of his 
drinks. He grew pathetically tender in his professions, 

1 Nantu Etrart. Captain of the smuggler's brig in Scott's Redgauntlct. 



DOWN THE OISE 99 

but I walked beside liim in silence or answered liim in 
stately courtesies, and, when we got to the landing-place, 
passed the word in English slang to the Cigarette. 

In spite of the false scent we had thrown out the day 
before, there must have been fifty people about the bridge. 
AVe were as pleasant as we could be with all but Carnival. 
We said good by, shaking hands with the old gentleman 
who knew the river and the young gentleman who had a 
smattering of English, but never a word for Carnival. 
Poor Carnival, here was a humiliation. He who had been 
so much identified with the canoes, who had given orders 
in our name, who had shown off the boats and even the 
Ijoatmen like a private exhibition of his own, to be now so 
.publicly shamed by the lions of his caravan! I never saw 
anybody look more crestfallen than he. He hung in the 
background, coming timidly forward ever and again as he 
thought he saw some symptom of a relenting humor, and 
falling hurriedly back when he encountered a cold stare. 
Let us hope it will be a lesson to him. 

I would not have mentioned Carnival's peccadillo had 
not the thing been so uncommon in France. This, for in- 
stance, was the only case of dishonesty or even sharp prac- 
tice in our whole voyage. We talk very much about our 
honesty in England. It is a good rule to be on your guard 
wherever you hear great professions about a very little 
piece of virtue. If the English could only hear how they 
are spoken of abroad, they might confine themselves for a 
while to remedying the fact, and perhaps even when that 
was done, give us fewer of their airs. 

The young ladies, the graces of Origny, were not present 
at our start, but when we got round to the second bridge, 
behold, it was black with sight-seers ! AYe were loudly 
cheered, and for a good way below young lads and lasses 
ran along the bank, still cheering. What with current and 
paddling, we were flashing along like swallows. It was no 



100 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

joke to keep up with us upon the woody shore. But the 
girls picked up tlieir skirts, as if they were sure they had 
good ankles, and followed until their breath was out. The 
last to weary were the three graces and a couple of com- 
})anions; and just as they, too, had had enough, the fore- 
most of the three leaped upon a tree-stump and kissed her 
hand to the canoeists. Not Diana herself, although this 
was more of a A'enus, after all, could have done a graceful 
tiling more gracefully.^ "Come back again!" she cried; 
and all the others echoed her; and the hills about Origny 
repeated the words, "Come back." But the river had us 
round an angle in a twinkling, and we were alone with the 
green trees and running water. 

Come back? Tliere is no coming back, young ladies, on 
the impetuous stream of life. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman 's star, 
The ploughman from the sun his season takes. 

And we must all set our ^Docket watches by the clock of 
fate. There is a headlong, forthright tide, that bears away 
man with his fancies like straw, and runs fast in time and 
space. It is full of curves like this, your winding river of 
the Oise; and lingers and returns in pleasant pastorals; 
and yet, rightly thought upon, never returns at all. For 
though it should revisit the same acre of meadow in the 
same hour, it will have made an ample sweep between 
whiles; many little streams will have fallen in; many ex- 
halations risen towards the sun; and even although it were 
the same acre, it will not be the same river Oise. And 
thus, graces of Origny, although the wandering fortune 
of my life should carry me back again to where you await 
death's whistle by the river, that will not be the old I who 

^ Not Diana . . . Venus. Grace was one of the marked characteristics 
of Diana, goddess of tlie hunt, as well as of Venus, goddess f^f love and 
beauty. 



DOWN THE OISK 101 

walks the street; and those wives and mothers, say, will 
those be you? 

There was never any mistake aljout the Oise, as a mat- 
ter of fact. In these upper reaches it was still in a pro- 
digious hurry for the sea. It ran so fast and merrily, 
through all the windings of its channel, that I strained my 
thumb fighting- with the rapids, and had to paddle all the 
rest of tlie way with one hand turned up. Sometimes it 
had to serve* mills; and being still a little river, ran very 
dry and shallow in the meanwhile. We had to put our legs 
out of the boat, and shove ourselves off the sand of the bot- 
tom with our feet. And still it went on its way singing 
among the poplars, and making a green valley in the 
"world. After a good wonian, and a good book, and to- 
bacco, there is nothing so agreeable on earth as a river. I 
forgave it its attempt on my life: which was, after all, 
one part oMing to the unruly winds of heaven that had 
blown down the tree, one part to my own mismanagement, 
and only a third part to the river itself, and that not out 
of malice, but from its great preoccupation over its own 
business of getting to the sea. A difficult business, too; 
for the detours it had to make are not to be counted. The 
geographers seem to have given up the attempt ; for I found 
no map. to represent the infinite contortion of its course. A 
fact will say more than any of them. After we had been 
some hours, three, if I mistake not, flitting by the trees at 
this smooth, breakneck gallop, when we came upon a ham- 
let and asked where we were, w^e had got no further than 
four kilometres (say two miles and a half) from Origny. 
If it were not for the honor of the thing (in the Scotch 
saying), we might almost as welh have been standing still. 

We lunched on a meadow inside a parallelogram of pop- 
lars. The leaves danced and prattled in the wind all round 
about us. - The river hurried on meanwhile, and seemed to 



102 AX INLAND VOYAGE 

cliide at our dela}'. Little we cared. The river knew 
where it was going; not so we; the less our hurry, where 
we found good quarters, and a pleasant theatre for a pipe. 
At that hour stock-brokers were shouting in Paris Bourse 
for t^^'o or three per cent; but we minded them as little as 
the sliding stream, and sacrificed a hecatomb^ of minutes 
to the gods of tobacco and digestion. Hurr}^ is the re- 
source of the faithless. Where a man can trust his own 
heart, and those of his friends, to-morrow is as good as to- 
da}^ And if he die in the meanwhile, why, then, there 
he dies, and the question is solved. 

We had to take to the canal in the course of the after- 
noon : l)ecause where it crossed the river there was, not a 
bridge, but a siphon. If it had not been for an excited 
fellow on the bank we should have paddled right into the 
siphon, and thenceforward not paddled any more. We met 
a man, a gentleman, on tlie tow-path, who was much inter- 
ested in our cruise. And I was witness to a strange seizure 
of lying suffered by the Cigarette ; who, because his knife 
came from Xorway, narrated all sorts of adventures in that 
country, where he has never been. He was quite feverish 
at the end, and pleaded demoniacal possession. 

Moy (pronounce Moy) was a pleasant little village, gath- 
ered round a chateau in a moat. The air was perfumed 
with hemp from neighboring fields. At the Golden Sheep 
we found excellent entertainment. German shells from 
the siege of La Fere, Niirnberg figures,- gold-fish in a bowl, 
and all manner of knick-knacks, embellished the public 
room. The landlady was a stout, plain, short-sighted, 

'^hccaiom'b. In Greok antiquity, a sacrifice of a linndred oxen, 
2 La Fere, on the Oise, in the department of Aisne, was besieged by 
Henry IV of France in 150(5. At La Fere Champenoise, in the depart- 
ment" of Marne, the French, during the Napoleonic wars, were defeated 
(March 25, 1814) by the allies. The allusion, which is of no essential 
importance, may be slightly inaccurate. JViirnhcrg figures. Niirnborg, 
or Nuremberg, a famous old city of Bavaria, is noted for the manu- 
facture of toys and fancy articles, many of whicli are ingeniously 
carved. In Germany, "Nviremberg wares" is a synonym for "trifles" 
or "knick-knacks." 



DOWN THE OlSE 103 

iiiotherh' body, with soinetliing not far short of a genius 
for cookery. She liad a guess of her excellence herself. 
After every dish was sent in, she would come and look on 
at the dinner for a while, with puckered, blinking eyes. 
'X"cst hon, nest-ce pasf^ she would say; and, when she 
had received a proper answer, she disappeared into the 
kitchen. That common French dish, partridge and cab- 
bages, became a new thing in my eyes at the Golden Sheep; 
and many subsequent dinners have bitterly disappointed 
me in consequence. Sweet was our rest in the Golden. 
Sheep at Moy. 



LA FEKE OF CUIJSKD MEMORY 

We lingered in Moy a good i)art of the day, for we were 
fond of being philosophical, and scorned long journeys and 
early starts on principle. The place, moreover, invited to 
repose. People in elal)orate shooting costumes sallied from 
the chateau with guns and game-bags; and this was a 
])leasure in itself, to remain behind while these elegant 
pleasure-seekers took the first of the morning. In this way 
all the world may be an aristocrat, and play the duke among 
marquises, and the reigning monarch among dukes, if he 
will only outvie them in tranquillity. An imperturbalde 
demeanor comes from perfect patience. Quiet minds can- 
not be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune or 
misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock during 
a thunder-storm. 

AVe made a very short day of it to La Fere ; but the dusk 
was falling and a small rain had begun before we stowed 
the boats. La Fere is a fortified town in a plain, and has 
two belts of rampart. Between the first and the second 
extends a region of waste land and cultivated patches. 

i"C"tsf hon, n'cst fjosf" "It's good, isn't it?" 



-[04 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

Here and tliere along the wayside were posters forbidding 
trespass in the name of military engineering. At last a 
second gateway admitted us to the town itself. Lighted 
windows looked gladsome, whiffs of comfortable cookery 
came abroad upon the air. The town was full of the mili- 
tary reserve, out for the French Autumn manoeuvres, and 
the reservists walked speedily and wore their formidable 
great-coats. It was a fine night to be within doors over 
dinner, and hear the rain upon the windows. 

The Cigarette and I could not sufficiently congratulate 
each other on the prospect, for we had been told there was 
a capital inn at La Fere. Such a dinner as we were going 
to eat ! such beds as we were to sleep in ! and all the while 
the rain raining on houseless folk over all the poplared 
country-side. It made our mouths water. The inn bore 
the name of some woodland animal, stag, or hart, or hind, 
I forget which. But T shall never forget how spacious and 
how eminently habitable it looked as we drew near. The 
carriage entry was lighted up, not by intention, but from 
the mere superfluity of fire and candle in the house. A 
rattle of many dishes came to our ears ; we sighted a great 
field of tablecloth; the kitchen glowed like a forge and 
smelt like a garden of things to eat. 

Into this, the inmost shrine and physiological heart of 
a hostelry, with all its furnaces in action and all its dressers 
charged with viands, you are now to suppose us making our 
triumphal entry, a pair of damp rag-and-bone men, each 
with a limp india-rubber bag upon his arm. I do not be- 
lieve I have a sound view of that kitchen ; I saw it through 
a sort of glory, but it seemed to me crowded with the 
snowy caps of cookmen, who all turned round from their 
saucepans and looked at us with surprise. There was no 
doubt about the landlady, however; there she was, head- 
ing her army, a flushed, angry woman, full of affairs. Her 
I asked politely — too politel}^ thinks the Cigarette — if 



DOWN THE OISE 105 

we could have beds, she surveying us coldly from head to 
foot. 

^"You will finds beds in the suburb/' she remarked. "We 
are too busy for the like of you." 

If we could make an entrance, change our clothes, and 
order a bottle of wine, I felt sure we could put things 
right ; so said I, "If we cannot sleep, we may at least 
dine," — and was for depositing my bag. 

What a terrible convulsion of nature was that which 
followed in the landlady's face ! She made a run at us 
and stamped her foot. 

^^Out with you, — out of the door !" she screeched. ''Sor- 
tez! sortez! sortez par la porte!" 

I do not know how it happened, but next moment we 
were out in the rain and darkness, and I was cursing 
before the carriage entry like a disappointed mendicant. 
Where were the boating men of Belgium? where the 
judge and his good wines? and where the graces of 
Origny? Black, black was the night after the hrelit 
kitchen, but what was that to the blackness in our heart ? 
This was not the first time that I have been refused a 
lodging. Often and often have I planned what I should 
do if such a misadventure happened to me again. And 
nothing is easier to plan. But to put in execution, with 
the heart boiling at the indignity? Try it; try it only 
once, and tell me what you did. 

It is all very fine to talk about tramps and morality. 
Six hours of police surveillance (such as I have had) or 
one brutal rejection from an inn door change your views 
upon the subject like a course of lectures. As long as 
you keep in the upper regions, with all the world bowing 
to 3'ou as you go, social arrangements have a very hand- 
some air; but once get under the wheels and you wish 
society were at the devil. I will give most respectable men 



106 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

a fortnight of such a life, and then I will offer them two- 
pence for w^hat remains of their morality. 

For my part, when I was turned out of the Stag, or the 
Hind, or whatever it was, I would have set the temple of 
Diana on fire if it had been handy.^ There was no crime 
complete enough to express my disapproval of human insti- 
tutions. As for the Cigarette, I never knew a man so 
altered. "We have been taken for pedlars again," said he. 
^'Good God, what it must be to be a pedlar in reality !" 
He particularized a complaint for every joint in the land- 
lady's body. Timon was a philanthropist alongside of 
him.- And then, when he was at the top of his maledic- 
tory bent, he would suddenly break away and begin whim- 
peringly to commiserate the poor. "I hope to God," he 
said, — and I trust the prayer was answered, — "that I shall 
never be uncivil to a pedlar." Was this the imperturbable 
Cigarette f This, this was he. Oh, change beyond report, 
thought, or belief ! 

Meantime the heaven wept upon our heads; and the 
windows grew brighter as the night increased in darkness. 
We trudged in and out of La Fere streets; we saw shops, 
and private houses where people were copiously dining ; we 
saw stables where carters' nags had plenty of fodder and 
clean straw; we saw no end of reservists, Avho were very 
sorry for themselves this wet night, I doubt not, and 

1 set the temple of Diane em fire. The temple of Diana at Ephesus, 
one of the Seven Wonders of the world, was set on fire by Erostratus 
with the purpose of immortalizing his name. 

- Timon was a philanthropist. Timon of Athens, in ShakspL>re"s 
play of that name, upon discovering the ingratitude of a throng of 
flatterers whom he has treated with lavish generosity, suffers bitter 
and violent reaction of feeling. The following passage illustrates the 
point of Stevenson's allusion : 

"Timon will to the woods, where he shall find 
The uukindest beast more kinder than mankind. 
The gods confound — hear me, you good gods all I — 
The Athenians both within and out that wall ! 
And grant as Timon grows, his hate may grow 
To the whole race of mankind, high and low I 
Amen." (Act IV, sc. i, 11. 35-40.) 



DOWN THE OlSE 107 

yearned for their country homes; but had they not each 
man his place in La Fere barracks ? And we, what had we ? 

There seemed to be no other inn in the whole town. 
People gave us directions, which we followed as best we 
could, generally with the effect of bringing us out again 
upon the scene of our disgrace. We were very sad people 
indeed, by the time we had gone all over La Fere ; and the 
Cigarette had already made up his mind to lie under a 
poplar and sup off a loaf of bread. But right at the other 
end, the house next the town-gate was full of light and 
bustle. ''Bazin, aubergiste, loge a pied/'^ was the sign. 
''A la Croix de Malte/'~ There were we received. 

The room was full of noisy reservists drinking and smok- 
ing ; and were very glad indeed when the drums and bugles 
began to go about the streets* and one and all had to 
snatch shakoes and be oft* for the barracks. 

Bazin was a tall man, running to fat ; soft-spoken, with 
a delicate, gentle face. We asked him to share our wine; 
but he excused himself, having pledged reservists all day 
long. This was a very different type of the workman- 
innkeeper from the bawling, disputatious fellow at Origny. 
He also loved Paris, where he had worked as a decorative 
painter in his 3^outh. There were such opportunities for 
self-instruction there, he said. And if any one has read 
Zola's description^ of the workman's marriage party visit- 
ing the Louvre they would do well to have heard Bazin 
by way of antidote. He had delighted in the museums in 
his youth. "One sees there little miracles of work," he 
said ; "that is what makes a good workman ; it kindles a 
spark." AVe asked him how he managed in La Fere. "I 
am married," he said, "and I have my pretty children. 

^ "Bazin, auhergiste, loge a pied." "Bazin, innkeeper, lodges pedes- 
trians." 

2.4 la Croix de Malte." At [the sign of] ttie Maltese Cross." 
^Zola's description. In L'Assommoir. 



108 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

But frankl}^, it is no life at all. From morning to niglit 
I pledge a pack of goocl-enoiigli fellows who know nothing/' 

It faired as the night went on, and the moon came out 
of the clouds. We sat in front of the door, talking softly 
with Bazin. At the guard-house opposite the guard was 
being forever turned out, as trains of field artillery kept 
clanking in out of the night or patrols of horsemen trotted 
by in their cloaks. Madame Bazin came out after a while; 
she was tired with her day's w^ork, I suppose; and she 
nestled up to her husband and laid her head upon his 
breast. He had his arm about her and kept gently patting 
her on the shoulder. I think Bazin was right, and he was 
really married. Of how few people can the same be said ! 

Little did the Bazins know how much they served us. 
We were charged for candtes, for food and drink, and for 
the beds we slept in. But there was nothing in the bill 
for the husband's pleasant talk; nor for the pretty spec- 
tacle of their married life. And there was yet another 
item uncharged. For these people's politeness really set 
us up again in our own esteem. We had a thirst for consid- 
eration ; the sense of insult was still hot in our spirits ; and 
civil usage seemed to restore us to our position in the 
world. 

How little we pay our way in life ! Although we have 
our purses continually in our hand, the better part of 
service goes still unrewarded. But I like to fancy that a 
grateful spirit gives as good as it gets. Perhaps the 
Bazins knew how much I liked them? perhaps they, also, 
were healed of some slights by the thanks that I gave 
them in my manner? 



DOWN THE OlSE 109 

DOWN THE OISE 
THROUGH THE GOLDEN VALLEY 

Below La Fere the river runs through a piece of open 
pastoral country; green, opulent, loved by breeders; called 
the Golden Valley. In wide sweeps, and with a swift and 
equable gallop, the ceaseless stream of water visits and 
makes green the fields. Kine, and horses, and little humor- 
ous donkeys browse together in the meadows, and come 
down in troops to the river-side to drink. They make a 
strange feature in the landscape; above all when startled, 
and you see them galloping to and fro, with their incon- 
gruous forms and faces. It gives a feeling as of great, 
unfenced iDampas, and the herds of wandering nations. 
There were hills in the distance upon either hand ; and 
on one side, the river sometimes bordered on the wooded 
spurs of Coucy and St. Gobain. 

The artillery were practising at La Fere; and soon the 
cannon of heaven joined in that loud play. Two conti- 
nents of cloud met and exchanged salvos overhead; while 
all round the horizon we could see sunshine and clear air 
upon the hillSc What with the guns and the thunder, the 
herds were all frighted in the Golden Valley. We could 
see them tossing their heads, and running to and fro in 
timorous indecision; and when they had made up their 
minds, and the donkey followed the horse, and the cow was 
after the donkey, we could hear their hoofs thundering 
abroad over the meadows. It had a martial sound, like 
cavalry charges. And altogether, as far as the ears are 
concerned, w^e had a very rousing battle piece performed 
for our amusement. 

At last, the guns and the thunder dropped off; the sun 
shone on the wet meadows; the air was scented with the 
breath of rejoicino- trees and grass; and the river kept 



110 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

unweariodly carrying us on at its best pace. There was 
a manufacturing district about Chauny; and after that 
the banks grew so high that they hid the adjacent country, 
and we could see nothing but clay sides, and one willow 
after another. Only here and there we passed by a village 
or a ferry, and some wondering child upon the bank would 
stare after us until we turned the corner. I dare say we 
continued to paddle in that child's dreams for many a 
night after. 

Sun and shower alternated like day and night, making 
the hours longer by their variety. When the showers 
were heavy I could feel each drop striking through my jer- 
sey to my warm skin ; and the accumulation of small shocks 
put me nearly beside myself. I decided I should l)uy a 
mackintosh at Noyon. It is nothing to get wet; but the 
misery of these individual pricks of cold all over my body 
at the same instant of time made me flail the water witli 
my paddle like a madman. The Cigarette was greatly 
amused -by these ebullitions. It gave him something else 
to look at besides clay banks and willows. 

All the time the river stole away like a thief in straight 
places, or swung round corners with an eddy ; the willows 
nodded and were undermined all day long; the clay banks 
tumbled in; the Oise, which had been so many centuries 
making the Golden Valley, seemed to have changed its 
fancy and be bent upon undoing its performance. What 
a number of things a river does b}^ simply following Grav- 
ity in the innocence of its heart ! 



DOWN THE OISE m 



NOYOX CATHEDRAL 



XoYOX stands about a mile from the river, in a little 
plain surrounded by wooded hills, and entirely covers an 
eminence with its tile roofs, surmounted by a long, straight- 
backed cathedral with two stiff towers. As we got into the 
town, the tile roofs seemed to tumble ui^-hill one upon 
another, in the oddest disorder; but for all their scrambling 
they did not attain above the knees of the cathedral, which 
stood, upright and solemn, over all. As the streets drew 
near to this presiding genius, through the market-place 
under the Hotel de Yille,^ they grew emptier and more 
composed. Blank walls and shuttered windows w^ere turned 
to the great edifice, and grass grew on the white causeway. 
"Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon 
thou standest is holy ground." The Hotel du Nord,- never- 
theless, lights its secular tapers within a stone-cast of the 
church, and we had the superb east end before -our eyes 
all morning from the window of our bedroom. I have 
seldom looked on the east end of a church with more com- 
plete s^'mpathy. As it flanges out in three wide terraces, 
and settles down broadly on the earth, it looks like the 
poop of some great old battle-ship. Hollow-backed but- 
tresses carry vases, which figure for the stern lanterns. 
There is a roll in the ground, and the towers just ap- 
pear above the pitch of the roof, as though the good 
ship were bowing lazily over an Atlantic swell. At any 
moment it might be a hundred feet away from you, climb- 
ing the next billow. At any moment a window might 
open, and some old admiral thrust forth a cocked hat and 
proceed to take an observation. The old admirals sail 
the sea. no longer; the old ships of battle are all broken 
up, and live only in pictures; but this, that was a church 

1 Hotel (Ir rule. Town Hall. 
-HOUl <Ih yard. Northern Hotel. 



112 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

before ever tlie}^ were thought upon, is still a church, and 
makes as brave an appearance by the Oise. The cathedral 
and the river are probably the two oldest things for miles 
around ; and certainly they have both a grand old age. 

The Sacristan took us to the top of one of the. towers, 
and showed us the five bells hanging in their loft. From 
above the town was a tessellated pavement of roofs and 
gardens; the old line of rampart was plainly traceable; 
and the Sacristan pointed out to us, far across the plain, 
in a bit of gleaming sky between two clouds, the towers of 
Chateau Coucy. 

I find I never weary of great churches. It is my favorite 
kind of mountain scenery. Mankind was never so happily 
inspired as when it made a cathedral : a thing as single and 
specious as a statue to the first glance, and yet, on exam- 
ination, as lively and interesting as a forest in detail. The 
height of spires -cannot be taken by trigonometry; 'they 
measure absurdly -short, but how tall they are to the 
admiring eye! And where we have so many elegant pro- 
portions, growing one out of the other, and all together 
into one, it seems as if proportion transcended itself and 
became something different and more imposing. I could 
ne\er fathom how a man dares to lift up his voice to 
preach in a cathedral. What is he to say that will not 
be an anti-climax? For though I have heard a consider- 
able variety of sermons, I never yet heard one that was so 
expressive as a cathedral. 'Tis the best preacher itself, and 
preaches day and night; not only telling you of man's 
art and aspirations in the past, but convicting your own 
soul of ardent sympathies; or rather, like all good preach- 
ers, it sets you preaching to yourself, — and every man is 
his own doctor of divinity in the last resort. 

As I sat outside of the hotel in the course of the after- 
noon, the sweet, groaning thunder of the organ floated out 
of the church like a summons. I was not averse, liking 



DOWN THE OISE 113 

the theater so well, to sit out an act or two of the play, 
hut I could never rightly make out the nature of the 
service I beheld. Four or five priests and as many choris- 
ters were singing Miserere^ before the high altar when 
I went in. There was no congregation but a few old 
women on chairs and old men kneeling on the pavement. 
After a while a long train of young girls, walking two and 
two, each with a lighted taper in her hand, and all dressed 
in black with a white veil, came from behind the altar and 
began to descend the nave ; the four first carrying a Vir- 
gin and child upon a tal)le. The priests and choristers 
arose from their knees and followed after, singing "Ave 
Mary" as they went. In this order they made the circuit 
of the cathedral, passing twice before me where I leaned 
against a pillar. The priest who seemed of most conse- 
quence was a strange, down-looking old man. He kept 
mumbling prayers with his lips; but, as he looked upon 
me darkling, it did not seem as if prayer were uppermost 
in his heart. Two others, who bore the burden of the 
chant, were stout, brutal, military-looking men of forty, 
with bold, over-fed eyes; they sang with some lustiness, 
and trolled forth "Ave Mary" like a garrison catch. The 
little girls were timid and grave. As they footed slowly 
up the aisle, each one took a moment's glance at the Eng- 
lishman ; and the big nun who played marshal fairly 
stared him out of countenance. As for the choristers, 
from first to last 'they misbehaved as only boys can mis- 
behave, and cruelly marred the performance with their 
antics. 

T understood a great deal of the spirit of what went on. 
Indeed, it would be difficult not to ttnderstand the Mis- 
erere, which I take to be the composition o'^ an atheist. If 
it ever be a good thing to take such despondency to heart, 

^Miserere. The Latin version of tlie 51st Psalm, used in the liturgy 
of the Catholic church : so named from the opening words, '"Miserere 
me Domine" — "Have mercy upon me, O Lord." 



114 AN IiNLAND VOYAGE ' 

the Miserere is the right music and a cathedral a fit scene. 
So far I am at one witli the Catholics, — an odd name for 
them, after all? But why, in God's name, these holiday 
choristers? why these priests who steal wandering looks 
ahout the congregation while they feign to he at prayer? 
why this fat nun, who rudely arranges her procession and 
shakes delinquent virgins by the elbow? why this spitting, 
and snuffing, and forgetting of keys, and the thousand 
and one little misadventures that disturb a frame of mind, 
laboriously edified with chants and organings? In any 
play-house reverend fathers may see what can be done 
with a little art, and how, to move high sentiments, it is 
necessary to drill the supernumeraries and have every stool 
in its proper place. 

One other circumstance distressed me. I could bear a 
Miserere myself, having had a good deal of open-air exer- 
cise of late; but I wished the old people somewhere else. 
It was neither the right sort of music nor the right sort 
of divinity for men and women who have come through 
most accidents by this time, and probably have an opinion 
of their own upon the tragic element in life. A person 
up in years can generally do his own Miserere for himself ; 
although I notice that such an one often prefers Jubilate 
Deo^ for his ordinary singing. On the whole, the most 
religious exercise for the aged is probably to recall their 
own experience; so many friends dead, so many hopes 
disappointed, so many slips and stumbles, and withal so 
many bright days and smiling providences; there is surely 
the matter of a very eloquent sermon in all this. 

On the whole, I was greatly solemnized. In the little 
pictorial map of our whole Inland Voyage, which my fancy 
still preserves, and sometimes unrolls for the amusement 
of odd moments, Noyon cathedral figures on a most pre- 

^Jutilate Deo. The 100th Psalm — "Make a joyful noise unto the 
Lord." 



DOW^' THE OISE. 115 

posterous scale, and must be nearly as large as a depart- 
ment.^ I can still see the faces of the priests as if they 
were at my elbow, and hear Ave Maria, ora pro nohis'^ 
sounding through the church. All Xoyon is blotted out 
for me by these superior memories; and I do not care to 
say more about the place. It was but a stack of brown 
roofs at the best, where I believe people live very reputably 
in a quiet way; but the shadow of the church falls upon 
it when the sun is low, and the five bells are heard in all 
quarters, telling that the organ has begun. If ever I join 
the church of Kome I shall stipulate to be Bishop of Xoyon 
on the Oise. 



DOWN THE OISE 
TO COMPIEGNE 

The most patient people grow weary at last with being 
continually wetted with rain; except, of course, in the 
Scotch Highlands, where there are not enough tine inter- 
vals to point the difference. That was like to be our case 
the day we left Xoyon. I remember nothing of the voyage; 
it was nothing but clay banks, and willows, and rain ; in-- 
cessant, pitiless, beating rain; until w^e stopped to lunch 
at a little inn at Pimprez, where the canal ran very near 
the river. We were so sadly drenched that the landlady lit 
a few sticks in the chimney for our comfort; there we sat 
in a steam of vapor lamenting our concerns. The husband 
donned a game-bag and strode out to shoot; the wife sat 
in a far corner watching us. I think we were w^orth look- 
ing at. We grumbled over the misfortune of La Fere; we 
forecast other La Feres in the future, — althousfh thino^s 
went better with the Cigarette for sj^okesman; he had 

^ department. One of the ei.i^hty-seven administrative divisions of 
France. 

-Ave Maria, ora pro nobis. "Hail, Mary, pray for us;" a devotional 
salutation to tl:e Virt-iu. 



IIQ AN INLAND VOYAGE 

more aplomb altogether than I; and a dull, positive wa}^ 
of approaching a landlady that carried off the india-rubber 
bags. Talking of La Fere put us talking of the reservists. 

^'Reservery," said he, "seems a pretty mean way to spend 
one's autumn holiday." 

^'About as mean," returned I, dejectedly, "as canoe- 
ing-" 

"These gentlemen travel for their pleasure?" asked the 
landlady, with unconscious irony. 

It was too much. The scales fell from our ejes. An- 
other wet day, it was determined, and we put the boats 
into the train. 

The weather took the hint. That was our last wetting. 
The afternoon faired up; grand clouds still voyaged in 
the sky, but now singly, and with a depth of blue around 
their path; and a sunset, in the daintiest rose and gold, 
inaugurated a thick night of stars and a month of un- 
broken weather. At the same time, the river began to 
give us a better outlook into the country. The banks were 
not so high, the willows disappeared from along the mar- 
gin, and pleasant hills stood all along its course and marked 
their profile on the sky. 

In a little while, the canal coming to its last lock, began 
to discharge its water houses on the Oise; so that we had 
110 lack of company to fear. Here were all our own friends; 
the Deo Gratias of Conde and the Four Sons of Aymon 
journeyed cheerily down the stream along with us; we 
exchanged waterside pleasantries with the steersman 
perched among the lumber, or the driver hoarse with bawl- 
ing to his horses; and the children came and looked over 
the side as we paddled by. We had never known all this 
while how much we missed them; but it gave us a fillip 
to see the smoke from their chimneys. 

A little below this junction we made another meeting 
of yet more account. For there we were joined by the 



DOWN THE OISE 117 

Aisne, already a far-traveled river and fresh out of Cham- 
pagne. Here ended the adolescence of the Oise; this was 
Ills marriage day; thenceforward he had a stately, brim- 
ming march, conscious of his own dignity and sundry 
dams. He became a tranquil feature in the scene. The 
trees and towns saw themselves in him, as in a mirror. 
He carried tlie canoes lightly on his broad breast; there 
was no need to work hard against an eddy, but idleness 
became the order of the day, and mere straightforward dip- 
ping of the paddle, now on this side, now on that, without 
intelligence or effort. Truly we were coming into halcyon 
weather upon all accounts, and were floated towards the 
sea like gentlemen. 

We made Compiegne as the sun was going down : a fine 
profile of a town above the river. Over the bridge a regi- 
ment was parading to the drum. People loitered on the 
quay, some fishing, some looking idly at the stream. And 
as the two boats shot in along the water, we could see them 
pointing them out and speaking one to another. We 
landed at a floating lavatory, where the washerwomen were 
still beatino^ the clothes. 



AT COMPIEGXE 



We put up at a l)ig, bustling hotel in Compiegne, where 
nobody observed our presence. 

Eeservery and general militarismus (as the Germans 
call it) was rampant. A camp of conical white tents with- 
out the town looked like a leaf out of a picture Bible; 
sword-belts decorated the walls of the cafes, and the streets 
kept sounding all day long with military music. It was not 
possible to he an Englishman and avoid a feeling of elation ; 
for the men who followed the drums were small and walked 
shabbily. Each man inclined at his own angle, and jolted 



118 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

to his own convenience as he went. There was nothing of 
the superb gait with which a regiment of tall Highlanders 
moves behind its music, solemn and inevitable, like a natu- 
ral phenomenon. Who, that has seen it, can forget the 
drum-major pacing in front, the drummers' tiger skins, the 
jDipers' swinging plaids, the strange, elastic rhythm of the 
whole regiment footing it in time, and the bang of the 
drum when the brasses cease, and the shrill pipes take up 
the martial story in their place? 

A girl at school in France began to describe one of our 
regiments on parade to her French schoolmates, and as she 
went on, she told me the recollection grew so vivid, she 
became so proud to be the countrywoman of such soldiers, 
and so sorry to be in another country, that her voice failed 
her and she burst into tears. I have never forgotten that 
girl, and I think she very nearly deserves a statue. To call 
her a young lady, with all its niminy^ associations, would 
be to offer her an insult. She may rest assured of one 
thing, although she never should marry a heroic general, 
never see any great or immediate result of her life, she 
will not have lived in vain for her native land. 

But though French soldiers show to ill-advantage on 
parade, on the march they are gay, alert, and willing, like 
a troop of fox-hunters. I remember once seeing a com- 
l^any pass through the forest of Fontainebleau, on the 
Chailly road, between the Baa Breau and the Reine 
Blanche. One fellow walked a little before the rest, and 
sang a loud, audacious marching song. The rest bestirred 
their feet, and even swung their muskets in time. A young 
officer on horseback had hard ado to keep his countenance 
at the words. You never saw anything so cheerful and 
spontaneous as their gait; school-boys do not look more 
eagerly at hare and hounds ; and you would have thought 
it impossible to tire such willing marchers. 

1 niminy. Affectedly nice. 



DOWN THE OISE 119 

My great delight in Compiegne was the town hall. I 
doted upon tlie town hall. It is a monument of Gothic 
insecurity/ all turreted, and gargoyled, and slashed, and 
bedizened with half a score of architectural fancies. Some 
of the niches are gilt and painted; and in a great square 
panel in the center, in black relief on a gilt ground, Louis 
XII. rides upon a pacing horse, with hand on hip and head 
thrown back. There is royal arrogance in every line of 
him; the stirruped foot projects insolently from the frame; 
the eye is hard and proud ; the very horse seems to be 
treading with gratification over protrate serfs, and to have 
the breath of the trumpet in his nostrils. So rides forever, 
on the front of the town hall, the good king Louis XII., 
the father of his people. 

Over the king^s head, in the tall center turret, 
appears the dial of a clock; and high above that, three lit- 
tle mechanical figures, each one with a hammer in his hand, 
whose business it is to chime out the hours, and halves, 
and quarters for the burgesses of Compiegne. The center 
figure has a gilt breastplate; the two others wear gilt 
trunk-hose; and they all three have elegant, flapping hats 
like cavaliers. As the quarter approaches they turn their 
heads and look knowingly one to the other; and then, 
kling go the three hammers on three little bells below. 
The hour follows, deep and sonorous, from the interior of 
the tower ; and the gilded gentlemen rest from their labors 
with contentment. 

I had a great deal of healthy pleasure from their manoeu- 
vres, and took good care to miss as few performances as 
possible; and I found that even the Cigarette, while he 
pretended to despise my enthusiasm, was more or less a 

1 Gothic insecuritij. Gothic is a term applied to tlio pointed styles 
of architecture developed in northern Europe from 1200-1500. The 
term is inaccurate, for Gothic architecture did not originate with the 
Goths. InsecuviUi is sufficiently e.vplnined by the context of the sen- 
tence. A gargoyle is a projecting stone, usually carved to represent 
some grotesque figure. 



120 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

devotee himself. There is something highly absurd in the 
exposition of such toys to the outrages of winter on a 
housetop. They would be more in keeping in a glass case 
before a Niirnberg clock.^ Above all, at night, when the 
cJiildren are abed, and even grown people are snoring 
under quilts, does it not seem impertinent to leave these 
gingerbread figures winking and tinkling to the stars and 
the rolling moon ? The gargoyles may fitly enough twist 
their ape-like heads; fitly enough may the potentate be- 
stride his charger, like a centurion in an old German print 
of the Via Dolorosa;- but the toys should be put away in 
a box among some cotton, until the sun rises, and the 
children are abroad again to be amused. 

In Compiegne post-ofhce a great packet of letters awaited 
us; and the authorities were, for this occasion only, so 
polite as to hand them over upon application. 

In some way, our journey may be said to end with this 
letter-bag at Compiegne. The spell was broken. We had 
partly come home from that moment. 

No one should have any correspondence on a journey; it 
is bad enough to have to write; Imt the receipt of letters 
is the death of all holiday feeling. 

"Out of my country and myself I go." I wish to take a 
dive among new conditions for a while, as into another 
element. I have nothing to do with my friends or my 
affections for the time ; when I came away, I left my heart 
at home in a desk, or sent it forward with portmanteau to 
await me at my destination. After my journey is over, I 

1 Nilrnherf/ clock. The allusion is not perfectly clear. The Niirn- 
berg clock with fisuros before it (but not under a glass case) is the one 
over the Frauenkirche, or Church of Our Lady. Daily, at the stroke of 
noon, figures representing the Seven Electors come -from their niches 
and pass before the effigy of the Emperor, Charles IV. 

2 A centurion . . . Via Dolorosa. The ria Dolorosa, or the Dolorous 
Way. IS the name applied to a street in Jerusalem which extends from 
St. Stephen's Gate to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Along this 
street .Jesus was led on His wav to Calvary. The allusion would apply 
to such a print as Diirer's Dif Krcnzfracmnq (Bearing the Cross), 
which represents Jesus as sinking beneath the weight of 'the cross. 
See Mark XV, 21. 



DOWN THE OISE 121 

shall not fail to read your admirable letters with the atten- 
tion they deserve. But I have paid all this money, look 
you, and paddled all these strokes, for no other purpose 
than to be abroad ; and yet you keep me at home with your 
perpetual communications. You tug the string, and I feel 
that I am a tethered bird. You pursue me all over Europe 
with the little vexations that I came away to avoid. There 
is no discharge in the w^ar of life, I am wtII aware; but 
shall tliere not be so much as a week's furlough ? 

We were up by six, the day we were to leave. They 
had taken so little note of us that I hardly thought they 
would have condescended on a bill. But they did, with 
some smart particulars, too; and we paid in a civilized 
manner to an uninterested clerk, and went out of that 
hotel, wdth the india-rubber bags, unremarked. No one 
cared to know about us. It is not possible to rise before 
a village; but Compiegne was so grown a town that it 
took its ease in the morning; and we were up and away 
while it was still in dressing-gown and slippers. The 
streets were left to people washing door-steps; nobody 
was in full dress but the cavaliers upon tlie town hall ; 
they were all washed with dew, spruce in their gilding, and 
full of intelligence and a sense of professional responsi- 
bility. Kling went they on the bells for the half -past six, 
as we went by. I took it kind of them to make me this 
parting compliment; they never were in better form, not 
even at noon upon a Sunday. 

There was no one to see us off but the early washer- 
women, — early and late, — who were already beating the 
linen in their floating lavatory on the river. They were 
very merry and matutinal in their ways; plunged their 
arms boldly in, and seemed not to feel the shock. It would 
be dispiriting to me, this early beginning and first cold 
dabble, of a most dispiriting day's work. But I believe 
they would have been as unwilling to change days with us 



122 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

as we could be to change with them. They crowded to the 
door to watch us paddle awa}^ into the thin sunny mists 
upon the river ; and shouted heartily after us till we were 
through the bridge. 



CHANGED TIMES 

There is a sense in which those mists never rose from 
off our journey; and from that time forth they lie very 
densely in my note-book. As long as the Oise was a small, 
rural river it took us near by people's doors, and Ave could 
hold a conversation with natives in tlie riparian fields. 
But now that it had grown so wide, tlie life along shore 
passed us by at a distance. It was the same difference as 
between a great public highway and a country bypath that 
wanders in and out of cottage gardens. We now lay in 
towns, where nobody troubled us with questions; we had 
floated into civilized life, where people pass without salu- 
tation. In sparsely inhabited places we make all we can 
of each encounter, but when it comes to a city, we keep to 
ourselves, and never speak unless we have trodden on a 
man's toes. In these waters we were no longer strange 
birds, and nobody supposed we had traveled farther than 
from the last town. I remember, when we came into 
L'Isle Adam, for instance, how we met dozens of pleasure- 
boats outing it for the afternoon, and there was nothing to 
distinguish the true vovager from the amateur, except, 
perhaps, the filthy condition of my sail. The company in 
one boat actually thought they recognized me for a neigh- 
bor. Was there ever anything more wounding? All the 
romance had come down to that. Now, on the upper 
Oise, where nothing sailed, as a general thing, but fish, a 
pair of canoeists could not be thus vulgarly explained 
away ; we were strange and picturesque intruders ; and 
out of people's wonder sprang a sort of light and passing 



DOWN THE OISE 123 

intimacy all along our route. There is nothing hut tit for 
tat in this world, though sometimes it he a little difficult 
to trace: for the scores are older than we ourselves, and 
there has never yet been a settling day since things were. 
You get entertainment pretty much in proportion as you 
give. As long as we were a sort of odd wanderers, to be 
stared at and followed like a quack doctor or a caravan, 
we had no want of amusement in return; but as soon as 
we sank into commonplace ourselves, all whom we met were 
similarly disenchanted. And here is one reason of a dozen 
why the world is dull to dull persons. 

In our earlier adventures there was generally something 
to do, and that quickened us. Even the showers of rain 
had a revivifying effect, and shook up the brain from tor- 
por. But now, when the river no longer ran in a proper 
sense, only glided seaward with an even, outright, but im- 
percej^tible speed, and when the sky smiled upon us day 
after day without variety, we began to slip into that golden 
doze of the mind which follows upon much exercise in the 
open air. I have stupefied myself in this way more than 
once : indeed, I dearly love the feeling ; but I never had it 
to the same degree as when paddling down the Oise. It 
was the apotheosis of stupidity. 

We ceased reading entirely. Sometimes, when I found a 
new paper, I took a particular pleasure in reading a single 
number of the current novel ; but I never could bear more 
than three instalments; and even the second was a dis- 
appointment. As soon as the tale became in any way per- 
spicuous, it lost all merit in my eyes ; only a single scene, 
or, as is the way with these feuiUeto?is,^ half a scene, with- 
out antecedent or consequence, like a piece of a dream, had 
the knack of fixing my interest. The less I saw of the 
novel tlie better I liked it ; a pregnant reflection. But for 

^ fcuiJleton. That part of a French newspaper which is. devoted to 
light literature, serial stories, or criticism. 



124 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

the most part, as I said, we neither of us read anything in 
the world, and employed the very little while we were 
awake between bed and dinner in poring upon maps. I 
have always been fond of maps, and can voyage in an atlas 
with the greatest enjoyment. The names of places are sin- 
gularly inviting; tlie contour of coasts and rivers is en- 
thralling to the eye ; and to hit in a map upon some place 
you have heard of before makes history a new possession. 
But we thumbed our charts, on those evenings, with the 
blankest unconcern. We cared not a fraction for this 
place or that. We stared at the sheet as children listen to 
their rattle, and read the names of towns or villages to for- 
get them again at once. We had no romance in the matter ; 
there was nobody so fanc3'-free. If 3^ou had taken the 
maps away while we were studying them most intently, it 
is a fair bet whether we might not have continued to study 
the table with the same delight. 

About one thing we were mightily taken up, and that was 
eating. I think I made a god of my belly. I remember 
dwelling in imagination upon this or that dish till my 
mouth watered; and long before we got in for the night 
my appetite was a clamant, instant annoyance. Some- 
times we paddled alongside for a Avhile and whetted each 
other with gastronomical fancies as we went. Cake and 
sherry, a homely refection, but not witliin reach upon tlie 
Oise, trotted through my head for many a mile; and once, 
as we were approaching Verberie, the Cigarette brought my 
heart into my mouth by the suggestion of oyster patties 
and Sauterne. 

I suppose none of us recognize the great part that is 
played in life by eating and drinking. The appetite is so 
imperious that we can stomacli the least interesting viands, 
and pass off a dinner liour tliankfully enough on bread and 
water; just as there arc men wlio must read something, if 



DOWN THE OISE 125 

it were only Bradshaw's Giiicle.^ But there is a romance 
about the matter, after all. Probably the table has more 
devotees than love ; and I am sure that food is much more 
generally entertaining than scenery. Do you give in, as 
Walt Whitman- would say, tl>at you are any the less immor- 
tal for that? The true materialism is to be ashamed of 
what we are. To detect the flavor of an olive is no less a 
piece of human perfection than to find beauty in the colors 
of the sunset. 

Canoeing was easy work. To dip the paddle at the proper 
inclination, now right, now left ; to keep the head down 
stream; to empty the little pool that gathered in the lap 
of the apron; to screw up the eyes against the glittering 
sparkles of sun upon tlie water ; or now and again to pass 
below the whistling tow-rope of the Deo Gratias of Conde, 
or the Four Sons of Aymon, — there was not much art in 
that ; certainly silly muscles managed it between sleep and 
waking : and meanwhile the brain had a whole holiday, and 
went to sleep. We took in .at a glance the larger features 
of the scene, and beheld, with half an eye, bloused fishers 
and dabbling washerwomen on the bank. Now and again 
we might be half wakened by some church spire, by a 
leaping fish, or by a trail of river grass that clung about 
the paddle and had to be plucked off and thrown away. 
But these luminous intervals were only partially luminous. 
A little more of us was called into action, but never the 
whole. The central bureau of nerves, what in some moods 
we call Ourselves, enjoyed its holiday without disturbance, 
like a Government Othce. The great wheels of intelligence 
turned idly in the head, like fly-wheels, grinding no grist. 
I have gone on for half an hour at a time, counting my 

1 Brr/f/.s'7/OK-'s f/uide. Georpje Bx-adshaw, a Quaker map-maker, was 
the originator, in 1839, of railwaj' guides. 

-Wait Whitman. An American poet (1819-1892) whose work is 
characterized by an intentional crudity of form and a boldly inde- 
pendent and original attitude toward life and literary art. His works 
had a strong influence on Stevenson's mind. 



12G AN INLAND VOYAGE 

strokes and forgetting the hundreds. I flatter myself the 
beasts that perish could not underbid that, as a low form 
of consciousness. And \vhat a pleasure it was ! What a 
hearty, tolerant temper did it bring about ! There is noth- 
ing captious about a man who lias attained to this, the one 
possible apotheosis in life, the Apotheosis of Stupidity; 
and he begins to feel dignified and longevous like a tree. 

There was one odd piece of practical metaphysics which 
accompanied what I may call the depth, if I must not call 
it the intensity, of my abstraction. What philosophers call 
me and not me, ego and no7i ego, preoccupied me whether 
1 would or no. There was less me and more not me than 
I was accustomed to expect. I looked on upon somebody 
else, who managed the paddling; I was aware of somebody 
else's feet against the stretcher; my own body seemed to 
have no more intimate relation to me than the canoe, or 
the river, or the river banks. Xor this alone: something 
inside my mind, a part of my brain, a province of my 
proper being, had thrown off allegiance and set up for 
itself, or perhaps for the somebody else who did the pad- 
dling. I had dwindled into quite a little thing in a corner 
of myself. I Avas isolated in my own skull. Thoughts pre- 
sented themselves unbidden; they were not my thoughts, 
they were plainly some one else's; and I considered them 
like a part of the landscape. I take it, in short, that I 
was about as near Nirvana^ as would be convenient in prac- 
tical life; and, if this be so, I make the Buddhists my sin- 
cere compliments; 'tis an agreeable state, not very con- 
sistent with mental brilliancy, not exactly profitable in a 
money point of view, but very calm, golden, and incurious, 
and one that sets a man superior to alarms. It may be best 
figured by supposing yourself to get dead drunk, and 3^et 
keep sober to enjoy it. I have a notion that open-air labor- 

1 'Sirvana. According to Buddhism, a condition after death in which 
all personal consciousness is lost. 



DOWN THE OISE 127 

ers must spend a huge poition of tlieir clays in this eestatic 
stupor, which explains their high composure and endurance. 
A pity to go to the expense of laudanum when here is a 
better paradise for nothing ! 

This frame of mind was the great exploit of our vo3^age, 
take it all in all. It was the farthest piece of travel accom- 
plished. Indeed, it lies so far from beaten paths of lan- 
guage that I despair of getting the reader into sympathy 
with the smiling, complacent idiocy of my condition; when 
ideas came and went like motes in a sunbeam; when trees 
and church spires along the bank surged up from time to 
time into my notice, like solid ol)jects through a rolling 
cloudland ; when the rhythmical swish of boat and paddle 
in the water became a cradle-song to lull my thoughts 
asleep; when a piece of mud on the deck was sometimes 
an intolerable eyesore, and sometimes quite a companion 
for me, and the object of pleased consideration; and all 
the time, with the river running and the shores changing 
upon either hand, I kept counting my strokes and forget- 
ting the hundreds, the happiest animal in France. 



DOWN THE OISE 
CHURCH INTERIORS 

We made our fii^t stage below Compiegne to Pont Sainte 
Maxence. I was abroad a little after six the next morning. 
The air was biting and smelt of frost. In an open place 
a score of women wrangled together over the day's market; 
and the noise of their negotiation sounded thin and queru- 
lous, like that of sparrows on a winters morning. The rare 
passengers 1)1 ew into their hands, and shuffled in their 
wooden shoes to set the blood agog. The streets were full 
of icy shadow, although the chimneys were smoking over- 



128 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

head in golden sunshine. If 3'Ou wake early enough at this 
season of the year, you may get up in December to break 
your fast in June. 

1 found my way to the church, for there is always some- 
thing to see about a church, whether living worshippers or 
dead men's tombs; you find there the deadliest earnest, 
and the hollowest deceit; and even where it is not a piece 
of history, it will be certain to leak out some contemporary 
gossip. It was scarcely so cold in the church as it was 
without, but it looked colder. The white nave was posi- 
tively arctic to the eye ; and the tawdriness of a continental 
altar looked more forlorn than usual in the solitude and 
the bleak air. Two priests sat in the chancel reading and 
waiting penitents ; and out in the nave one very old woman 
was engaged in her devotions. It was a wonder how she 
was able to pass her beads when healthy young people were 
breathing in their palms and slapping their chest; but 
though this concerned me, I was yet more dispirited by the 
nature of her exercises. She went from chair to chair, from 
altar to altar, circunmavigating the church. To each shrine 
she dedicated an equal number of beads and an equal 
length of time. Like a prudent capitalist with a somewhat 
cynical view of the commercial prospect, she desired to 
place her supplications in a great variety of heavenly secu- 
rities. She would risk nothing on the credit of an}^ single 
intercessor. Out of the whole company of saints and 
angels, not one but was* to suppose- himself her champion 
elect against the Great Assizes !^ I could only think of it 
as a dull, transparent jugglery, based .upon unconscious 
unbelief. 

She was as dead an old woman as ever I saw; no more 
than bone and parchment, curiously put together. Her 
eyes, with which she interrogated mine, were vacant of 
sense. It depends on what you call seeing, whether you 

1 ihc Great Assizes. The Day of Judgment. 



DOWN THE OISE. 129 

iniglit not call lier blind. Perhaps she had known love: 
perliaps borne children, suckled tlieiii, and given them pet 
names. But now that was all gone by, and had left her 
neither happier nor wiser; and the best she could do with 
her mornings was to come up here into the cold church 
and juggle for a slice of heaven. It was not without a 
gulp that I escaped into the streets and the keen morning 
air. Morning? why, how tired of it she would be before 
night! and if she did not sleep, how then? It is fortunate 
that not many of us are brought up publicly to justify 
our lives at the bar of threescore years and ten; fortunate 
that such a number are knocked opportunely on the head in 
what they call the flower of their years, and go away to 
sufl'er for their follies in private somewhere else. Other- 
wise, between sick children and discontented old folk, we 
might be put out of all conceit of life. 

I had need of all my cerebral hygiene during that day's 
l)addle : the old devotee stuck in my throat sorely. But I 
was soon in the seventh heaven of stupidity; and knew 
nothing but that somebody was paddling a canoe, while I 
was counting his strokes and forgetting the hundreds. I 
used sometimes to be afraid I should remember the hun- 
dreds ; which would have made a toil of a pleasure; but 
the terror was chimerical, they went out of my mind by 
enchantment, and I knew no more than the man in the 
moon about my only occupation. 

At Crei], where we stopped to lunch, we left the canoes 
in another floating lavatory, which, as it was high noon, 
was packed with washerwomen, red - handed and loud- 
voiced ; and they and their broad jokes are about all I 
remember of the place. I could look up my history books, 
if you were very anxious, and tell you a date or two; for 
it figured rather largely in the English wars. But I prefer 
to mention a girls' boarding-school, which had an interest 
for us because it was a girls' boarding-school, and because 



130 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

we imagined we had rather an interest for it. At least, 
there were the girls about the garden; and here were wc 
on the river; and there was more than one handkerchief 
waved as we went by. It caused quite a stir in my heart ; 
and 3'et how we should have wearied and despised each 
other, these girls and I, if we had been introduced at a 
croquet party ! But this is a fashion I love : to kiss the 
hand or wave a handkerchief to people I shall never see 
again, to play with possibility, and knock in a \^eg for 
fancy to hang upon. It gives the traveler a jog, reminds 
him that he is not a traveler everywhere, and that his 
journey is no more than a siesta by the way on the real 
march of life. 

The church at Creil was a nondescript place in the inside, 
splashed with gaudy lights from the windows, and picked 
out w^ith medallions of the Dolorous Way. But there was 
one oddity, in the way of an ex voto,^ which pleased me 
hugely: a faithful model of a canal boat, swung from 
the vault, with a written aspiration that God should con- 
duct the Saint Nicholas of Creil to a good haven. The 
thing was neatly executed, and would have made the de- 
light of a party of boys on tlie water-side. But what tickled 
me was the gravity of the peril to be conjured. You might 
hang up the model of a sea-going ship, and welcome : one 
that is to plough a furrow round the world, and visit the 
tropic or the frosty poles, runs dangers that are well worth 
a candle and a mass. But the Saint Nicliolas of Creil, 
which was to be tugged for some ten years by jDatient 
draught horses, in a weedy canal, with the poplars chatter- 
ing overhead, and the skipper whistling at the tiller; which 
was to do all its errands in green inland places, and never 
got out of sight of a village belfry in all its cruising; wlw, 

^ Ex voto. Latin, according to one's vow or prayer ; in reference 
to the practice of placing before a shrine some votive offering, either 
as a token of a prayer for favoi- or protection, or in fulfilment of a 
vow previously made. 



DOWN THE OTSE. 131 

yon would have tliouglit if anything could be done witliout 
the intervention of Providence, it would be that ! But per- 
haps the skipper was a humorist: or perhaps a prophet, 
reminding people of the seriousness of life by this pre- 
posterous token. 

At Creil, as at Noyon, Saint Joseph seemed a favorite 
saint on the score of punctuality. Day and hour can be 
specified ; and grateful people do not fail to specify them 
on a votive tablet, when prayers have been punctually and 
neatly answered. Whenever time is a consideration, Saint 
Joseph is the proper intermediary. I took a sort of pleas- 
ure in observing the vogue he had in France, for the good 
man plays a very small part in my religion at home. Yet 
I could not help fearing that, where the saint is so much 
commended for exactitude, he will be expected to be very 
grateful for his tablet. 

This is foolishness to us Protestants; and not of great 
importance any way. Whether people's gratitude for the 
good gifts that come to them be wisely conceived or duti- 
fully expressed is a secondary matter, after all, so long as 
they feel gratitude. The true ignorance is when a man 
does not know that he has received a good gift, or begins 
to imagine that he has got it for himself. The self-made 
man is the funniest windbag after all ! There is a marked 
difference between decreeing light in chaos, and lighting 
the gas in a metropolitan back-parlor with a box of patent 
matches; and, do what we will, there is always something 
made to our hand, if it were only our fingers. 

But there was something worse than foolishness pla- 
carded in Creil Church. The Association of the Li^■ing 
Rosary (of which I had never previously heard) is respon- 
sible for that. This association was founded, according 
to the printed advertisement, by a brief of Pope Gregory 
Sixteenth, on the 17th of January, 1832 : according to a 
colored bas-relief, it seems to have been founded, some time 



132 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

or other^ by tlie Virgin giving one rosaiy to Saint Dominic, 
and the Infant Saviour giving anotlier to Saint Catlierine 
of Sienna. Pope Gregory is not so imposing, but he is 
nearer hand. I could not distinctly make out whether the 
association was entirely devotional, or had an eye to good 
works; at least it is highly organized: the names of four- 
teen matrons and misses were filled in for each week of the 
month as associates, with one other, generally a married 
woman, at tlie top for Zelatrice,^ the choragus- of the band. 
Indulgences, plenary and partial, follow on the performance 
of the duties of the association. "The partial indulgences 
are attached to the recitation of the rosary." On "the reci- 
tation of the required dizaine,"^ a partial indulgence 
l^romptly follows. When people serve the kingdom of 
Heaven with a pass-book in their hands, I should always 
be afraid lest they should carry the same commercial spirit 
into their dealings with their fellow-men, which would 
make a sad and sordid business of this life. 

There is one more article, however, of happier import. 
"All these indulgences," it appeared, "are applicable to 
souls in purgatory." For God's sake, ye ladies of Creil, 
apply them all to the souls in purgatory without delay ! 
Burns would take no hire for his last songs, preferring to 
serve his countr}^ out of unmixed love. Suppose you were 
to imitate the exciseman,* mesdames, and even if the souls 
in purgatory were not greatly bettered, some souls in Creil 
upon the Oise would find themselves none the worse either 
here or hereafter. 

1 cannot help wondering, as I transcribe these notes, 
whether a Protestant born and bred is in a fit state to 
understand these signs, and do them wdiat justice they 

"^ Zelatrice. Zealot; further explained by the apposltive phrase. 

2 choragus. The leader of a chorus or theatrical performance at the 
religious festivals of ancient Athens. 

3 the required dizain e. Ten prayers. 

* imitate the e-rciseman. Robert Burns acted for a time as excise- 
aian, or inspector of liquor customs. 



DOWN THE OISE 133 

deserve; and I cannot help answering that he is not. 
They cannot look so merely ugly and mean to the I'aithful 
as they do to me. I see that as clearly as a proposition m 
pAiclid. For these believers are neither weak nor wicked. 
They can pnt up their tablet commending Saint Joseph 
for his despatch as if he were still a village carpenter; they 
can "recite the required dizaine/' and metaphorically pocket 
tlie indulgences as if they had done a job for heaven; and 
then they can go out and look down unaljashed upon this 
wonderful ri\er flowing by, and up without confusion at 
the pin-point stars, which are themselves great worlds full 
of flowino- rivers greater than the Oise. I see it as plainly, 
I .ay as a proposition in Euclid, that my Protestant mmd 
has missed the point, and that there goes with these deform- 
ities some higher and more religious spirit than I dream. 

I wonder if other people would make the same allow- 
ances for me? Like the ladies of Creil, having recited my 
rosary of toleration, I look for my indulgence on the spot. 



PEECY AND THE MARIONETTES 

We made Precy about sundown. The plain is rich with 
tufts of poplar. " In a wide, luminous curve the Oise hiy 
under the hillside. A faint mist began to rise and con- 
found the different distances together. There was not a 
sound audible but that of the sheep-bells in some meadows 
by the river, and the creaking of a cart down the long road 
that descends the hill. The villas in their gardens, the 
shops alono- the street, all seemed to have been deserted the 
dav before; and I felt inclined to walk discreetly as one 
feels in a silent forest. All of a sudden we came round a 
corner, and there, in a little green round the church was 
a bevy of girls in Parisian costumes playing croquet. Their 
lauo-hter and the hollow sound of ball and mallet made a 



134: AN INLAND VOYAGE 

cheery stir in the neighborhood ; and the look of these 
slim figures, all corseted and ribboned, produced an an- 
swerable disturbance in our liearts. We were within snift' 
of Parisy it seemed. And here were females of our own 
species playing croquet, just as if Precy had been a place 
in real life instead of a stage in the fairy-land of travel. 
For, to be frank, the peasant-woman is scarcely to be 
counted as a woman at all, and after having passed by such 
a succession of people in petticoats digging, and hoeing, 
and making dinner, this company of coquettes under arms 
made quite a surprising feature in the landscape, and con- 
vinced us at once of being fallible males. 

The inn at Precy is the worst inn in France. Not even 
in Scotland have I found worse fare. It was kept by a 
brother and sister, neither of whom M-as out of their teens. 
The sister, so to speak, prepared a meal for us ; and the 
brother, who had been tippling, came in and brought with 
him a tipsy butcher, to entertain us as we ate. We found 
pieces of loo-warm pork among the salad, and pieces of 
unknown yielding substance in the ragout } The butcher 
entertained us Avith pictures of Parisian life, with which 
he professed himself well acquainted ; the brother sitting 
the while on the edge of the billiard table, toppling pre- 
cariously, and sucking the stump of a cigar. In the midst 
of these diversions bang went a drum past the house, and 
a hoarse voice began issuing a proclamation. It was a man 
with marionettes announcing a performance for that 
evening. 

He had set up his caravan and lighted his candles on 
another part of the girls' croquet green, under one of those 
open sheds which are so common in France to shelter mar- 
kets; and he and his wife, by the time we strolled up 
there, were trying to keep order with the audience. 

It was the most absurd contention. The show-people 

^ragout. Stew. 



DOWN THE OISE 135 

had set out a certain number of benches ; and all who sat 
upon them were to pay a couple of sous' for the accommo- 
dation. They were always quite full— a bumper house- 
as long as nothing was going forward; but let the show- 
woman appear with an eye to a collection, and at the first 
rattle of the tambourine the audience slipped off the seats 
and stood round on the outside, with their hands in their 
pockets. It certainly would have tried an angeFs temper. 
The showman roared from the proscenium; he had been 
all over France, and nowhere, nowhere, "not even on the 
borders of Germany," had he met with such misconduct. 
Such thieves, and rogues, and rascals as he called them ! 
And now and again the wife issued on another round, and 
added her shrill quota to the tirade. I remarked here, as 
elsewhere, how far more copious is the female mind in 
the material of insult. The audience laughed in high good- 
humor over the man's declamations ; but they bridled and 
cried aloud under the woman's pungent sallies. She picked 
out the sore points. She had the honor of the village 
at her mercy. Voices answered her angrily out of the 
crowd, and received a smarting retort for their trouble. 
A couple of old ladies beside me, who had duly paid for 
their seats, waxed very red and indignant, and discoursed 
to each other audibly about the impudence of these mounte- 
banks; but as soon as the show-woman caught a whisper 
of this she was down upon them with a swoop; if mes- 
dame>; could persuade their neighbors to act with common 
honesty, the mountebanks, she assured them, would be 
polite enough ; mesdames had probably had their bowl of 
soup, and, perhaps, a glass of wine that evening; the 
mountebanks, also, had a taste for soup, and did not choose 
to have their little earnings stolen from them before their 
eyes. Once, things came as far as a brief personal en- 
counter between the showman and some lads, in which the 

1 sous. Half-pennies. 



136 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

former went down as readily as one of his own marionettes 
to a peal of jeering laugliter. 

I was a good deal astonished at this scene, hecause I 
am pretty well acquainted with the ways of French strol- 
lers, more or less artistic; and have always found them 
singularly pleasing. Any vstroller must be dear to the 
right-thinking heart ; if it were only as a living protest 
against offices and the mercantile spirit, and as something 
to remind us that life is not by necessity the kind of thing 
we generally make it. Even a German band, if you see 
it leaving town in the early morning for a campaign in 
country places, among trees and meadows, has a romantic 
flavor for the imagination. There is nobody under thirty 
so dead but his heart will stir a little at sight of a gypsies' 
camp. "We are not cotton-spinners all ;" or, at least, not 
all through. There is some life in humanity yet ; and youth 
will now and again find a brave word to say in dispraise of 
riches, and throw up a situation to go strolling with a knap- 
sack. 

An Englishman has always special facilities for inter- 
course with French gymnasts ; for England is the natural 
home of gymnasts. This or that fellow, in his tights and 
spangles, is sure to know a word or two of English, to have 
drunk English aff-'n-aff,^ and, perhaps, performed in an 
English music hall. He is a countryman of mine by pro- 
fession. He leaps like the Belgian boating-men to the 
notion that I must he an athlete myself. 

But the gymnast is not my favorite; he has little or no 
tincture of the artist in his composition; his soul is small 
■and pedestrian, for the most part, since his profession 
makes no call upon it, and does not accustom him to high 
ideas. But if a man is only so much of an actor that lie 
can stumble thromgh a farce, he is made free of a new 

"^ Aff'n-aff. Half and half; a mixture of two malt liquors, as ale 
and porter. 



DOWN THE OiSE 



137 



order of thonghts. He lias something else to think ahoiit 
heside the money-box. He has a pride of his own, and, 
what is of far more importance, he has an aim before him 
that he can never quite attain. He has gone upon a pil- 
grimage that will last him his life-long, because there is 
no end to it short of perfection. He will better himself a 
little day by day ; or, even if he has given up the attempt, 
he will always remember that once upon a time he had 
conceived this high ideal, that once upon a time he fell 
in love with a star. " 'T is better to have loved and lost.'"^ 
Although the moon should have nothing to say to Endym- 
ion,^ although he should settle down with Audrey" and 
feed pigs, do you not think he would move with a better 
grace and cherish higher thoughts to the end? The louts 
he meets at church never had a fancy above Audrey's 
snood; but there is a reminiscence in Endymion's heart 
that, like a spice, keeps it fresh and haughty. 

To be even one of the outskirters of art leaves a line 
stamp on a man's countenance. I remember once dining 
with a party in the inn at Chateau Landon. Most of them 
were unmistakable bagmen; others well-to-do peasantry; 
but there was one young fellow in a blouse, whose face 
stood out from among the rest surprisingly. It looked 
more finished ; more of the spirit looked out through it ; it 
had a living, expressive air, and you could see that his eyes 

^"'Tis tetter/' etc. From Tennyson's Iti Memoriam: 
" "lis better to have loved and Jost 
Than never to have loved at all." 

-Although the moon, etc. Diana, the goddess of the moon, passing 
one night above the earth in her chariot, saw Endymion, a beautiful 
shepherd, asleep on a hillside. She at once became enamoured of him, 
and, drawing near him as he slei^t, kissed him upon the lips. Before 
he was fully awake, she had withdrawn, and he saw only the moon 
in the sky. Though she visited him in this manner often, yet the 
moon had "nothing to say to Endymion." He, however, even while 
he slept, was conscious of her presence, as of a beautiful vision, and 
loved her in return ; hence the "reminiscence in Endymion's heart." 

^Audrey is a country wench in Shakspere's As You Like It, whom 
Touchstone, the clown, finds tending her goats in the forest, and weds. 
"An ill favoured thing, sir," he says of her. "but mine own ; a poor 
humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will." 



138 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

took things in. My companion and I wondered greatly 
who and wliat he could be. It was fair time in Chateau 
Landon, and when Ave went along to the booths we had our 
question answered; for there was our friend busily fiddling 
for the peasants to caper to. He was a wandering violinist. 

A troop of strollers once came to the inn where I was 
staying, in the department of Seine et Marne. There 
were a father and mother ; two daughters, brazen, blowsy 
hussies, who sang and acted, without an idea of how to 
set about either; and a dark young man, like a tutor, a 
recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss. 
The mother was the genius of the party, so far as genius 
can be spoken of with regard to such a pack of incompe- 
tent humbugs : and her husband could not find words to 
express his admiration for her comic countryman. "You 
should see my old w^oman," said he, and nodded his beery 
countenance. One night they performed in the stable- 
yard with flaring lamps : a wretched exhibition, coldly 
looked upon by a village audience. Next night, as soon 
as the lamps were lighted, there came a plump of rain, and 
they had to sweep away their baggage as fast as possible, 
and make off to the barn, where they harbored, cold, wet, 
and supperless. In the morning a dear friend of mine, 
who has as warm a heart for strollers as I have myself, 
made a little collection, and sent it by my hands to com- 
fort them for their disappointment. I gave it to the father ; 
he thanked me cordially, and we drank a cup together in 
the kitchen, talking of roads, and audiences, and hard 
times. 

AYhen I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with 
his hat. "I am afraid," said he, "that Monsieur will think 
me altogether a beggar; but I have another demand to 
make upon him." I began to liate him on the spot. "We 
play again to-night," he went on. "Of course I shall refuse 
to accept any more money from Monsieur and his friends. 



DOWN THE OlSE 139 

who have been already so liberal But our programme of 
to-night is something truly creditable; and I cling to the 
idea that Monsieur will honor us with his presence/' Ami 
then, with a shrug and a smile : "Monsieur understands, — 
the vanity of an artist !*' Save the mark ! The vanity of 
an artist ! That is the kind of thing that reconciles me to 
life: a ragged, tippling, incompetent old rogue, with the 
manners of a gentleman and the vanity of an artist, to 
keep up his self-respect ! 

But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin. It 
is nearly two years since I saw him first, and indeed 1 hope 
I may see him often again. Here is his first programme 
as I found it on the breakfast-table, and have kept it ever 
since as a relic of bright days : — 
''Mesclames et Messieurs,^ 

''Mademoiselle Ferrario et M. de Vauversin auront Vlion- 
neur de chanter ce soir les inorceaux sidvants. 

''Mademoiselle Ferrario chantera — Mignon — Oiseaux 
Legers — France — Des Frangais dorment let — Le chateau 
hleu — Oil voulez-vous alter ^ 

"M. de Vauversin — Madame Fontaine et M. Rohinet — 
Les plongeiu's a cheval — Le Marl mecontent — Tais-toi, 
gamin — Mon voisin Voriginal — Heureux comme ga — 
Connne on est tronipe." 

They made a stage at one end of the salle-a-manger.- 
And what a sight it was to see M. de A^auversin, with a cig- 
arette in his mouth, twanging a guitar, and following 

'^"Mesdames et Messieurs," etc. 
"Ladies and Gentlemen : 

"Mademoiselle Ferrario and M. de Vauversin will have the 
honor to sing this evening the following selections : 

"Mademoiselle Ferrario will sing: 'Mignon (Darling),' 'Birds 
Light of Wing,' 'France,' "Frenchmen Sleep There,' 'The Blue 
Castle,' 'Whither will you go?' 

"M. de Vauversin : 'Madame Fontaine and M. Rohinet,' 'The 
Divers on Horseback.' 'The Discontented Husband,' 'Shut up, 
you Rascal.' 'My Queer Neighbor,' 'As Happy as Can Be,' 'How 
<^ne is Deceived.' " 
~ SaJIc-d-niangcr. Dining room. 



140 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

Mademoiselle Ferrario's eves with the oheclient, kintlly look 
of a dog! The entertainment wound up with a tombola, 
or auction of lottery tickets: an admirable amusement, 
with all the excitement of gambling, and no ho^^e of gain 
to make you ashamed of your eagerness; for there, all is 
loss; you make haste to be out of pocket; it is a competi- 
tion who shall lose most money for the benefit of M. de 
Vauversin and Mademoiselle Ferrario. 

M. de Yauversin is a small man, with a great head of 
black hair, a vivacious and engaging air, and a smile that 
would be delightful if he had better teeth. He was once 
an actor in the Chatelet; but he contracted a nervous af- 
fection from the heat and glare of the foot-lights, which 
unfitted him for the stage. At this crisis Mademoiselle 
Ferrari'o, otherwise Mademoiselle Kita of the Alcazar, 
agreed to share his wandering fortunes. "I could never 
forget the generosity of that lady," said he. He wears 
trousers so tight that it has long been a problem to all 
who knew him how he manages to get in and out of them. 
He sketches a little in water-colors, he writes verses; he 
is the most patient of fishermen, and spent long days at 
the bottom of the inn-garden fruitlessly dabbling a line 
in the clear river. 

You should hear him recounting his experiences over 
a bottle of wine; such a pleasant vein of talk as he has, 
with a ready smile at his own mishaps, and every now 
and then a sudden gravity, like a man who should hear 
the surf roar while he was telling the perils of the deep. 
For it was no longer ago than last night, perhaps, that 
the receipts only amounted to a franc and a half to cover 
three francs of railway fare and two of board and lodging'. 
The Maire,^ a man worth a million of money, sat in the 
front seat, repeatedly applauding Mile. Ferrario, and yet I 
gave no more than three sous the whole evening. Local 

I Mnire. INIayor. 



DOWN THE OlSE 141 

authorities look with such an evil e^^e upon the strolling 
artist. Alas ! I know it well, who have been myself taken 
for one, and pitilessly incarcerated on the strength of the 
misapprehension/ Once, M. de Vauversin visited a com- 
missary of police for permission to sing. The commissary, 
who was smoking at his ease, politely doffed his hat upon 
the singer's entrance. "Mr. Commissary," he began, "I am 
an artist." And on went the commissary's hat again. No 
courtesy for the companions of Apollo !- "They are as de- 
graded as that," said M. de Vauversin, Avith a sweep of his 
cigarette. 

But what pleased me most was one outbreak of his, 
when we had been talking all the evening of the rubs, in- 
dignities, and pinchings of his wandering life. Some one 
said it would be better to have a million of money down, 
and Mile. Ferrario admitted that she would prefer tliat 
mightily. "Eli lien, moi non; — not I," cried De Vauversin;- 
striking the table with his hand. "If any one is a failure 
in the world, is it not I ? I had an art, in which I have 
done things well, — as well as some, better, perhaps, than 
others ; and now it is closed against me. I must go about 
the country gathering coppers and singing nonsense. Do 
you think I regret my life ? Do you think I would rather 
be a fat burgess, like a calf ? Not I ! I have had moments 
when I have been applauded on the boards : I think noth- 
ing of that ; but I -have known in my own mind sometimes, 
when I had not a clap from the whole house, that I had 
found a true intonation, or an exact and speaking gesture ; 
and tl:ien, messieurs, I have known what pleasure was, 
what it was to do a thing well, what it was to be an artist. 
And to know what art is, is to have an interest forever, 

1 Local anfhorifies, etc. Stevenson is referring to the incident of 
his imprisonment during- a wallcing tour in the valley of the Loing. 
See Epilo!/uc to an "Inland Yoijaiie.'' 

^Apollo represented not only the sun but enlightenment; hence he 
was the patron of music and the arts. 



142 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

such as no burgess can find in his petty concerns. Tenez, 
7nessieurs, je vais vous h dire,^ — it is like a religion." 

Such, making some allowance for the tricks of memory 
and the inaccuracies of translation, was the profession of 
faith of M. de A^auversin. I have given him his own name, 
lest any other wanderer should come across him, with his 
guitar and cigarette, and Mademoiselle Ferrario; for should 
not all the world delight to honor this unfortunate and loyal 
follower of the Muses? May Apollo send him rhymes 
hitherto undreamed of; may the river be no longer scanty 
of her silver fishes to his lure; may the cold not pinch him 
on long winter rides, nor the village jack-in-office affront 
him with unseemly manners ; and may he never miss Made- 
moiselle Ferrario from his side, to follow with his dutiful 
eyes and accompany on the guitar ! 

The marionettes made a very dismal entertainment. They 
performed a piece called Pyramus and Thishe, in five mor- 
tal acts, and all written in Alexandrines fully as long as 
tlie performers. One marionette was the king; another 
the wicked counsellor; a third, credited with exceptional 
beauty, represented Thisbe; and then there were guards, 
and obdurate fathers, and walking gentlemen. Nothing 
particular took place during the two or three acts that I 
sat out; but 3'Ou will be pleased to learn that the unities^ 
were properly respected, and the whole piece, with one 
exception, moved in harmony with classical rules. That 
exception was the comic countryman, a lean marionette in 
wooden shoes, who spoke in prose and in a broad patois" 
much appreciated by the audience. He took unconstitu- 
tional liberties with the person of his sovereign; kicked his 

1 "Tenez, messieurs, je rais vons dire." "Now then, gentlemen, I'm 
going to tell you." 

- Unities. According to the law of dramatic unities, which was 
observed in the ancient classic drama and the classic drama of France, 
the action of the play must he controlled by a single purpose, must 
not shift from place to place, and must not assume a passage of time 
exceeding the space of a single day. 

-patois. An illiterate dialect. 



BACK TO THE WOELD 143 

fellow-marionettes in the mouth with his wooden shoes, and 
whenever none of the versif3ing suitors were about, made 
love to Thisbe on his own account in comic prose. 

This fellow's evolutions, and the little prologue, in which 
the showman made a humorous eulogium of his troop, 
praising their indifference to applause and hisses, and their 
single devotion to their art, were the onl}^ circumstances in 
the whole affair that you could fancy would so much as 
raise a smile. But the villagers of Precy seemed delighted. 
Indeed, so long as a thing is an exhibition, and you pay 
to see it, it is nearly certain to amuse. If we were charged 
so much a head for sunsets, or if God sent round a drum 
before the hawthorns came in flower, what a work should 
we not make about their beauty ! But these things, like 
good companions, stupid people early cease to observe ; and 
the Abstract Bagman^ tittups past in his spring gig, and 
is positively not aware of the fioAvers along the lane, or 
the scenery of the weather overhead. 



BACK TO THE WORLD 

Of the next two days' sail little remains in my mind, and 
nothing whatever in my note-book. The river streamed on 
steadily through pleasant river-side landscapes. Washer- 
women in blue dresses, fishers in blue blouses, diversified 
tiie green banks; and the relation of the two colors was 
like that of the flower and the leaf in the forget-me-not. 
A symphony in forget-me-not ; I think Theophile Gautier- 
might thus have cliaracterized that two days' panorama. 
The sky w^as blue and cloudless; and the sliding surface 
of the river held up, in smooth places, a mirror to the 

'^Abstract Bagman; i. e., the commercial traveler in general, stand- 
ing as a type of those who are blind to the heauty of the world. 

2 Theophile Gautier. A French poet, critic, and novelist (1811-1872). 



144 AN INLAND VOYAGE 

heaven and the sliores. The washerwomen hailed us laugh- 
ingly; and the noise of trees and water made- an accom- 
paniment to our dozing thoughts, as we fleeted down the 
stream. 

The great volume, the indefatigable purpose of the river, 
held the mind in chain. It seemed now so sure of its end, 
so strong and easy in its gait, like a grown man full of 
determination. The surf was roaring for it on the sands of 
Havre. For ni}^ own part slipping along this moving- 
thoroughfare in my fiddle-case of a canoe, I also was be- 
ginning to grow aweary for my ocean. To the civilized 
man there must come, sooner or later, a desire for civiliza- 
tion. I was weary of dipping the paddle; I was weary of 
living on the skirts of life; I wished to be in the thick of it 
once more ; I wished to get to work ; I wished to meet people 
wdio understood my own speech, and could meet with me on 
equal terms, as a man, and no longer as a curiosity. 

And so a letter at Pontoise decided us, and we drew 
up our keels for the last time out of that river of Oise 
that had faithfully piloted them, through rain and sun- 
shine, for so long. For so many miles had this fleet and 
footless beast of burden charioted our fortunes that we 
turned our back upon it with a sense of separation. We 
had a long detour out of the world, but now we were back 
in the familiar places, where life itself makes all the run- 
ning, and we are carried to meet adventure without a stroke 
of the paddle. Now we were to return, like the voyager in 
the plav, and see what rearrangements fortune had per- 
fected the while in our surroundings ; what surprises stood 
ready made for us at home; and whither and how far the 
world had voyaged in our absence. You may paddle all 
day long; but it is when you come back at nightfall, and 
look in at the familiar room, that you find Love- or Death 
awaiting you beside the stove;- and the most beautiful 
adventures are not those we go to seek. 



TRAVELS ^¥ITH A DONKEY 



MY BEAR SIDNEY COLVIN, 

The journey wliicli this little book is to describe was very 
agreeable and fortunate for me. After an uncouth begin- 
ning, I had the Ijest of luck to the end. But we are all 
travelers in what John Bunyan calls the wilderness of 
this world, — all, too, travelers with a donkey; and the best 
that we find in our travels is an honest friend. He is a for- 
tunate voyager who finds many. We travel, indeed, to find 
them. They are the end and the reward of life. They keep 
us worthy of ourselves ; and, when we are alone, we are 
only nearer to the absent. 

Every book is, in an intimate sense, a circular letter to 
the friends of him who writes it. They alone take his 
meaning; they find private messages, assurances of love, 
and expressions of gratitude dropped for them in every 
corner. The public is but a generous patron who defrays 
the postage. Yet, though the letter is directed to all, we 
have an old and kindly custom of addressing it on the out- 
side to one. Of what shall a man be proud, if he is not 
proud of his friends? And so, my dear Sidney Colvin, it 
is with pride that I sign myself affectionately yours, 

E. L. S. 



TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 



VELAY^ 
THE DOXKEY, THE PxiCK, AND THE PACK-SADDLE 

In a little place called Le Monastier, in a pleasant highland 
valley fifteen miles from Le Puy, I spent about a month 
of fine days. Monastier is notable for the making of lace, 
for drunkenness, for freedom of language, and for unparal- 
leled political dissension. There are adherents of each of 
the four French parties- — Legitimists, Orleanists, Imperial- 
ists, and Republicans — in this little mountain-town ; and 
they all hate, loathe, decry, and calumniate each other. Ex- 
cept for business purposes, or to give each other the lie in 
a tavern brawl, they have laid aside even the civility of 
speech. 'Tis a mere mountain Poland.^ Tn the midst of 
this Babylon I found myself a rallying-point ; every one was 

1 Yelaij. An ancient' torritory of southwestern France, now included 
in the department of Haute-Loire. 

- When, after the defeat of the French at the Battle of Sedan 
(September, 1870), the second French empire was abolished and a 
provisional government established, strong factions arose regarding 
the question of a permanent form of government. Of these parties, 
the Legitimists desired a monarchy and the accession of the Count of 
Chamboi'd. a descendant of the elder, or Bourbon, line, who, before the 
Revolution, had for generations been kings of France^, and had since 
had two representatives on the throne. "The Orleanists advocated a 
limited monarchy and the accession of the Count of Paris or the 
Duke of Aumale* both descendants of the Duke of Orleans, younger 
brother of the Bourbon king. Louis XIV. The Imperialists, or Bona- 
partists, supported the Prince Imperial, the son of the recently deposed 
emperor. Louis Xapoleon. The Republicans, as their name implies, 
were opposed to monarchy and empire alike. A republic was finally 
established in 1875 — between three and four years before the time of 
Stevenson's journey through the Cevennes. 

^mountain Poland. Tn reference to the political dissensions of 
Poland. 

147 



1-18. 



TEAVELS WITH A DONKEY 



anxious to be kind and helpful to the stranger. This was 
not merely from the natural hospitality of mountain people, 
nor even from the surprise with which I was regarded as 
a man living of his own free will in Monastier, when he 
might just as well have lived anywhere else in this big 
world; it arose a good deal from my projected excursion 
southward through the Cevennes/ A traveler of my sort 
was a thing hitherto unheard of in that district. I was 
looked upon with contempt, like a man who should project 
a journey to the moon, but yet with a respectful interest, 
like one setting forth for the inclement Pole. All were 
ready to help in my preparations; a crowd of sympathizers 
supported me at the critical moment of a bargain; not a 
step was taken but was heralded by glasses round and cele- 
brated by a dinner or a breakfast. 

It was already hard upon October before I was ready to 
set forth, and at the high altitudes over which my road lay 
there was no Indian summer to be looked for. I was de- 
termined, if not to camp out, at least to have the means 
of camping out in my possession; for there is nothing more 
harassing to an easy mind than the necessity of reaching 
shelter by dusk, and the hospitality of a village inn is not 
always to be reckoned sure by those who trudge on foot. 
A tent, above all for a solitary traveler, is troublesome to 
pitch, and troublesome to strike again ; and even on the 
march it forms a conspicuous feature in your baggage. A 
sleeping-sack, on the other hand, is always ready — you have 

^ The Cevenncs. "The mountainous district of France to which, 
somewhat loosely, Stevenson applies the name Cevennes, lies alons 
the confines of Provence, and overlaps on several departments [in the 
southwestern part of the country], chief of which are Ardeche, Lozere, 
Gard, and tierault. In many parts the villages and -the people have 
far less in common with France and the French than Normandy and 
the Normans have with provincial England. Here in these mountain 
fastnesses and sheltered valleys the course of life has flowed along 
almost changeless for centuries, and here, too, we shall find much that 
is best in the romantic history and natural grandeur of France." — 
J. A. Hammerton : In the Track of R. L. Steroison and Elserrhere in 
Old France. For a further description of the Cevennes see the Century 
Dictionary. 



VELAY 149 

only to get into it; it serves a double purpose — a bed by 
night, a 'portmanteau by day ; and it does not advertise 
your intention of camping out to e^■e^y curious passe^-b3^ 
This is a huge point. If the camp is not secret, it is but a 
troubled resting-place; you become a public character; the 
convivial rustic visits your bedside after an early supper; 
and you must sleep with one eye open, and be up before 
the da}^ I decided on a sleeping-sack; and after repeated 
visits to Le Puy, and, a deal of high living for myself and 
my advisers, a sleeping-sack was designed, constructed, and 
triumphally brought home. 

This child of my invention was nearly six feet square, 
exclusive of two triangular flaps to serve as a pillow by 
night and as the top and bottom of the sack by day. I call 
it 'the sack,^ but it was never a sack by more than courtesy : 
only a sort of long roll or sausage, green water-proof cart- 
cloth without and blue sheep's fur within. It was com- 
modious as a valise, warm and dry for a bed. There was 
luxurious turning room for one; and at a pinch the thing 
might serve for two. I could bury myself in it up to the 
neck; for my head I trusted to a fur cap, with a hood to 
fold down over my ears and a band to pass under my nose 
like a respirator; and in case of heavy rain I proposed to 
make myself a little tent, or tentlet, with my water-proof 
coat, three stones, and a bent branch. 

It will readily be conceived that I could not carry this 
huge package on my own, merely human, shoulders. It 
remained to choose a beast of burden. Xow, a horse is a 
fine lady among animals, flighty, timid, delicate in eating, 
of tender health; he is too valuable and too restive to be 
left alone, so that you are chained to your brute as to a 
fellow galley-slave; a dangerous road pats him out of liis 
wits; in short, he's an uncertain and exacting ally, and 
adds thirty-fold to the troubles of the voyager. What I 
required was something cheap and small and hardy, and 



150 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

of a stolid and peaceful temper; and all these requisites 
pointed to a donkey. 

There dwelt an old man in Monastier, of rather unsound 
intellect according to some, much followed by street-boys, 
and known to fame as Father Adam. Father Adam had 
a cart, and to draw the cart a diminutive she-ass, not much 
bigger than a dog, the color of a mouse, with a kindly eye 
and a determined under-jaw. There was something neat 
and high-bred, a quakerish elegance, about the rogue that 
hit my fancy on the spot. Our first interview was in Mon- 
astier market-place. To prove her good temper, one child 
after another was set upon her back to ride, and one after 
another went head over heels into the air ; until a want of 
confidence began to reign in youthful bosoms, and the ex- 
periment was discontinued from a dearth of subjects. 1 
was already backed by a deputation of my friends; but as 
if this were not enough, all the buyers and sellers came 
round and helped me in the bargain ; and the ass and I and 
Father Adam were the centre of a hubbub for near half 
an hour. At length she passed into my service for the con- 
sideration of sixty-five francs and a glass of brandy. The 
sack had already cost eighty francs and two glasses of 
beer; so that Modestine, as I instantly baptized her, was 
upon all accounts the cheaper article. Indeed, that Avas as 
it should be ; for she was only an appurtenance of my mat- 
tress, or self-acting bedstead on four castors. 

I had a last interview with Father Adam in a billiard- 
room at the witching hour of dawn, when I administered 
the brandy. He professed himself greatly touched by the 
separation, and declared he had often bought white bread 
for the donkey when he had been content with black bread 
for himself ; but this, according to the best authorities, must 
have been a flight of fancy. He had a name in the village 
for brutally misusing the ass ; yet it is certain that he shed 
a tear, and the tear made a clean mark down one cheek. 



VELAY 151 

By the advice of a fallacious local saddler, a leather pad 
was made for me with rings to fasten on my bundle; and 
1 thoughtfully completed my kit and arranged my toilette. 
By way of armory and utensils, I took a revolver, a little 
spirit-lamp and pan, a lantern and some halfpenny candles, 
a jack-knife and a large leather flask. The main cargo 
consisted of two entire changes of warm clothing — besides 
my traveling wear of country velveteen, pilot-coat, and 
knitted spencer^ — some books, and my railway-rug, which, 
being also in the form of a bag, made me a double castle 
for cold nights. The permanent larder was represented 
by cakes of chocolate and tins of Bologna sausage. All this, 
except what I carried about my person, was easily stowed 
into the sheepskin bag; and by good fortune I threw in 
my empty knapsack, rather for convenience of carriage 
than from any thought that I should want it on my jour- 
ney. For more immediate needs, I took a leg of cold mut- 
ton, a bottle of Beaujolais, an empty *bottle to carry milk, 
an egg-beater, and a considerable quantity of black bread 
and white, like Father Adam, for myself and donkey, only 
in my scheme of things the destinations were reversed. 

Monastrians, of all shades of thought in politics, had 
agreed in threatening me with many ludicrous misadven- 
tures, and with sudden death in many surprising forms. 
Cold, wolves, robbers, above all the nocturnal practical 
joker, were daily and eloquently forced on my attention. 
Yet in these vaticinations, the true, patent danger was left 
out. Like Christian,- it was from my pack I suffered by 
the way. Before telling my own mishaps, let me, in two 
words, relate the lesson of my experience. If the pack is 
well strapped at the ends, and hung at full length — not 
doubled, for your life — across the pack-saddle, the traveler 
is safe. The saddle will certainly not fit, such is the im- 

1 spencer. A knitted coat or jacket, somewhat like a jersey or 
sweater. 

-Like Christian. See PUyrim's Profjress. 



152 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

perfection of our transitory life; it will assuredly topple 
and tend to overset ; but there are stones on every roadside, 
and a man soon learns the art of correcting any tendency 
to overbalance with a well-adjusted stone. 

On the day of my departure I was up a little after five ; 
by six, we began to load the donkey ; and ten minutes after, 
my hopes were in the dust. The pad would not stay on 
Modestine's back for half a moment. I returned it to its 
maker, with whom I had so contumelious a passage that 
the street outside was crowded from wall to wall with gos- 
sips looking on and listening. The pad changed hands 
with much vivacity; perhaps it would be more descriptive 
to say that we threw it at each other's heads ; and, at any 
rate, we were very warm and unfriendl^^, and spoke with a 
deal of freedom. 

I had a common donkey pack-saddle — a barde, as they 
call it — fitted upon Modestine; and once more loaded her 
with my effects. The doubled sack, my pilot-coat (for it 
was warm, and I was to walk in my waistcoat), a great bar 
of black bread, and an open basket containing the white 
bread, the mutton, and the bottles, were all corded together 
in a very elaborate system of knots, and I looked on the 
result with fatuous content. In such a monstrous deck- 
cargo, all poised above the donkey's shoulders, with noth- 
ing below to balance, on a brand-new pack-saddle that had 
not yet been worn to fit the animal, and fastened with 
brand-new girths that might be expected to stretch and 
slacken by the way, even a very careless traveler should 
have seen disaster brcAving. That elaborate system of 
knots, again, was the w^ork of too many sympathizers to be 
very artfully designed. It is true they tightened the cords 
with a will ; as many as three at a time would have a foot 
against Modestine's quarters, and be hauling with clenched 
teeth; but I learned afterwards that one thoughtful per- 



THE GREEN DOXKEY-DIUVER 153 

son, without any exercise of force, can make a ni<^ie solid 
job than half a dozen heated and enthusiastic grooms. I 
was then bnt a novice ; even after the misadventure of the 
pad nothing could disturb my security, and I went forth 
from the stable-door as an ox goeth to the slaughter. 



THE GREEN DONKEY-DRIVER 

The bell of Monastier was just striking nine as I 
got quit of these preliminary troubles and descended 
the hill through the common. As long as I was within 
sight of the windows, a secret shame and the fear 
of some laughable defeat withheld me from tampering 
with Modestine. She tripped along upon her four small 
hoofs with a sober daintiness of gait; from time to time 
she shook her ears or her tail; and she looked so small 
under the bundle that my mind misgave me. We got 
across the ford without difficulty — there was no doubt 
about the matter, she was docility itself — and once on the 
other bank, where the road begins to mount througli pine- 
woods, I took in my right hand the unhallowed staff, and 
with a quaking spirit applied it to the donkey. Modestine 
brisked up her pace for perhaps three steps, and tlien re- 
lapsed into her former minuet. Another application had 
the same effect, and so with the third. I am worthy the 
name of an Englishman, and it goes against my conscience 
to lay my hand rudely on a female. I desisted, and looked 
her all over from head to foot ; the poor brute's knees were 
trembling and her breathing was distressed ; it was plain 
that she could go no faster on a hill. God forbid, thouglit 
1, that I should brutalize this innocent creature; let her go 
at her own pace, and let me patiently follow. 

What that pace was, there is no word mean enough to 



154 TKAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

describe; it was something as much slower than a walk as 
a walk is slower than a run; it kept me hanging on each 
foot for an incredible length of time; in five minutes it 
exhausted the spirit and set up a fever in all the muscles 
of the leg. And yet I had to keep close at hand and 
measure my advance exactly upon hers ; for if I dropped a 
few yards into the rear, or went on a few Awards ahead, 
Modestine came instantly to a halt and began to browse. 
The thought that this was to last from here to Alais nearly 
broke my heart. Of all conceivable journeys, this prom- 
ised to be the most tedious. I tried to tell mj^self it was a 
lovely day; I tried to charm my foreboding spirit with 
tobacco ; but I had a vision ever present to me of the long, 
long roads, up hill and down dale, and a pair of figures 
ever infinitesimally moving, foot by foot, a yard to the 
minute, and, like things enchanted in a nightmare, ap- 
proaching no nearer to the goal. 

In the meantime there came up behind us a tall peasant, 
perhaps forty years of age, of an ironical snuffy counte- 
nance, and arrayed in the green tail-coat of the country. 
He overtook us hand over hand, and stopped to consider 
our pitiful advance. 

''Your donkey," says he, ''is very old?'^ 

I told him, I believed not. 

Then, he supposed, we had come far. 

I told him, we had but newly left Monastier. 

"Et voiis marcliez commc ^^a .^^'' cried he; and, throwing 
back his head, he laughed long and heartily. I watched 
him, half prepared to feel offended, until he had satisfied 
his mirth; and then, "You must have no pity on these 
animals," said he ; and, plucking a switch out of a thicket, 
he began to lace Modestine about the stern-works, uttering 
a cry. The rogue pricked up her ears and broke into a 

^'^Et vous marches comme c« /" "And you're walking like that?" 



THE GREEN DONKEY-DEIVER 155 

good round pace, which she kept up without flagging, and 
without exhibiting the least sjaiiptoni of distress, as long 
as the peasant kept beside us. Her former panting and 
shaking had been, I regret to say, a piece of comedy. 

My deus ex machind/ before he left me, supplied some 
excellent, if inhumane, advice; presented me with the 
switch, which he declared she would feel more tenderly 
than my cane; and finally taught me the true cry or ma- 
sonic word of donkey-drivers, "Proof !" All the time, he 
regarded me with a comical incredulous air, which was 
embarrassing to confront; and smiled over my donkey- 
driving, as I might have smiled over his orthography, or 
liis green tail-coat. But it was not my turn for the mo- 
ment. 

I was proud of my new lore, and thought I had learned 
the art to perfection. And certainly. Modestine did won- 
ders for the rest of the forenoon, and I had a breathing 
space to look about me. It was Sabbath; the mountain- 
fields were all vacant in the sunshine; and as we came 
down through St. Martin de Frugeres, the church was 
crowded to the door, there were people kneeling without 
upon the steps, and the sound of the priest's chanting 
came forth out of the dim interior. It gave me a home 
feeling on the spot; for I am a countryman of the Sab- 
bath, so to speak, and all Sabbath observances, like a Scotch 
accent, strike in me mixed feelings, grateful and the re- 
verse. It is only a traveler, hurrying by like a person 
from another planet, w^ho can rightly enjoy the peace and 
beauty of the great ascetic feast. The sight of the resting 
country does his spirit good. There is something better 



'^ Dens ex machind. The god [let down] from the machine: in 
reference to a mechanical contrivance in the classic drama by which 
the play was brought abruptly to a close : hence, a mechanical device 
outside of an author's plot, or, as here, a person who renders somewhat 
unexpected assistance. 



156 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

than music in the wide unusual silence; and it disposes 
him to amiable thoughts, like the sound of a little river or 
the warmth of sunlight. 

In this pleasant humor I came down the hill to where 
Goudet stands in a green end of a valley, with Chateau 
Beaufort opposite upon a rocky steep, and the stream, as 
clear as crystal, lying in a deep pool betv.-een them. Above 
and below, you may hear it wimpling over the stones, an 
amiable stripling of a river, which it seems absurd to call 
the Loire. On all sides, Goudet is shut in by mountains; 
rocky footpaths, practicable at best for donkeys, join it to 
the outer world of France; and the men and women drink 
and swear, in their green corner, or look up at the snow- 
clad peaks in winter from the threshold of their homes, 
in an isolation, you would think, like that of Homers 
Cyclops.^ But it is not so ; the postman reaches Goudet 
with the letter-bag ; the aspiring youth of Goudet are Avith- 
in a day's walk of the railway at Le Puy : and here in the 
inn you may find an engraved portrait of the host's 
nephew, Eegis Senac, "Professor of Fencing and Champion 
of the two Americas," a distinction gained by him, along 
with the sum of five hundred dollars, at Tammany Hall, 
New York, on the 10th April, 1876. 

I hurried over my midday meal, and was early forth 
again. But, alas, as we climbed the interminable hill upon 
the other side, "Proot !" seemed to have lo^t its virtue. I 
proofed like a lion, I proofed mellifluously like a sucking- 
dove ; but Modestine would be neither softened nor intimi- 
dated. She held doggedly to her pace ; nothing but a blow 
w^ould move her, and that only for a second. I must follow 
at her heels, incessantly belaboring. A moment's pause in 
this ignoble toil, and she relapsed into her own private 
gait. I think I never heard of any one in as mean a situa- 

1 WA-e that of Homer's Cvolopf^. Polyphemus, who dwelt in a cavei-n 
alone with his flocks. See Homer's Odusseij, Book IX. 



THE GREEN DONKEY-DRIVER I57 

tion. I must reach the lake of Boiichet. where I meant to 
camp, before sundown, and, to have even a hope of this, 1 
must instantly maltreat this uncomplaining animal. The 
sound of my own blows sickened me. Once, when 1 looked 
at her, she had a faint resemblance to a lady of my ac- 
quaintance who formerly loaded me with kindness; and 
this increased m}^ horror of my cruelt}^ 

To nuike matters worse, we encountered another donkey, 
ranging at will upon the roadside; and this other donkey 
clianced to be a gentleman. He and Modestine met nicker- 
ing for jo}^, and I had to separate the pair and beat down 
their young romance with a renewed and feverish bastinado. 
If the other donkey had had the heart of a male under 
his hide, he would have fallen upon me tooth and hoof ; 
and this was a kind of consolation — he was plainly un- 
worthy of Modestine's affection. But the incident saddened 
me, as did everything that spoke of my donkey's sex. 

It was blazing hot up the valley, windless, with vehe- 
ment sun upon my shoulders; and I had to labor so con- 
sistently with my stick that the sweat ran into my eyes. 
Every five minutes, too, the pack, the basket, and the pilot- 
coat would take an ugly slew to one side or the other; and 
I had to stop Modestine, just when I had got her to a 
tolerable pace of about two miles an hour, to tug, push, 
shoulder, and readjust the load. And at last, in the vil- 
lage of Ussel, saddle and all, the whole hypothec turned 
round and grovelled in the dust below the donkey's belly. 
She, none better pleased, incontinently drew up and 
seemed to smile; and a party of one man, two women, 
and two children came up, and, standing round me in a 
half-circle, encouraged her by their example. 

I had the devil's own trouble to get the thing righted ; 
and the instant I had done so, without hesitation, it top- 
pled and fell down upon tlie other side. Judge if I was 
hot ! And yet not a hand was offered to assist me. The 



158 TEAYELS WITH A DONKEY 

man, indeed, told me I ought to have a package of a dif- 
ferent sliape. I suggested, if he knew nothing better to the 
l)oint in my predicament, he might hold his tongue. And 
the good-natured dog agreed with me smilingly. It was 
the most despicable fix. I must plainly content myself 
with the pack for Modestine, and take the following items 
for my own share of the portage: a cane, a quart flask, a 
pilot- jacket heavily weighted in the pockets, two pounds 
of black bread, and an open basket full of meats and bot- 
tles. I believe I may say I am not devoid of greatness of 
soul ; for I did not recoil from this infamous burden. T 
disposed it. Heaven knows how, so as to be mildly portable, 
and then proceeded to steer Modestine through the village. 
She tried, as was indeed her invariable habit, to enter every 
house and every courtyard in the whole length ; and, en- 
cumbered as I was, without a hand to help myself, no words 
can render an idea of my difficulties. A ])riest, with six or 
seven others, was examining a church in process of repair, 
and he and his acolytes laughed loudly as they saw my 
plight. I remembered having laughed myself when I had 
seen good men struggling with adversity in the person of a 
jackass, and the recollection filled me with penitence. That 
was in my old light days, before this trouble came upon 
me. God knows at least that I shall never laugh again, 
thought I. But 0, what a cruel thing is a farce to those 
engaged in it ! 

A little out of the village, Modestine, filled with the 
demon, set her heart upon a by-road, and positively refused 
to leave it. I dropped all my bundles, and, I am ashamed 
to say, struck the poor sinner twice across the face. It 
was pitiful to see her lift up her head with shut eyes, as 
if waiting for another blow. I came very near crying; but 
I did a wiser thing than that, and sat squarely down by 
the roadside to consider my situation under the cheerful 
influence of tobacco and a nip of brandy. Modestine, in 



THE GEEEN DOXKEY-DRIVEE 159 

the meanwhile^, munched some black bread with a contrite 
h3'pocritical air. It was plain that I must make a sacrifice 
to the gods of shipwreck. I threw away the empty bottle 
destined to carry milk ; I threw away my own white bread, 
and, disdaining to act by general average, kept the black 
bread for Modestine; lastly, I threw away the cold leg 
of mutton and the egg-whisk, although this last was dear 
to my heart. Thus I found room for everything in the 
basket, and even stowed the boating-coat on the top. By 
means of an end of cord I slung it under one arm; and 
although the cord cut my shoulder, and the jacket hung 
almost to the ground, it was with a heart greatly lightened 
that I set forth again. 

I had now an arm free to thrash Modestine, and cruelly 
I chastised her. If I were to reach the lakeside before 
dark, she must bestir her little shanks to some tune. Al- 
ready the sun had gone down into a windy-looking mist; 
and although there were still a few streaks of gold far off 
to the east on the hills and the black firwoods, all was cold 
and gray about our onward path. An infinity of little 
country by-roads led hither and thither among the fields. 
It was the most pointless lal)yrintli. I could see my desti- 
nation overhead, or rather the peak that dominates it ; but 
choose as I pleased, the roads .always ended by turning away 
from it, and sneaking back towards the valley, or north- 
ward along the margin of the hills. The failing light, the 
waning color, the naked, unhomely, stony country through 
which I was traveling, threw me into some despondency. 
I promise you, the stick was not idle; I think every decent 
step til at Modestine took must have cost me at least two 
emphatic blows. There was not another sound in the 
neighborhood but that of my unwearying bastinado. 

Suddenly, in the midst of my toils, the load once more 
bit the dust, and, as by enchantment, all the cords were 
simultaneously loosened, and the road scattered with my 



160 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

dear possessions. The packing was to begin again from 
the beginning; and as I had to invent a new and better 
system, I do not doubt Imt I lost half an hour. It began 
to be dnsk in earnest as I reached a wilderness of turf and 
stones. It had the air of being a road which should lead 
everywliere at the same time; and I was falling into some- 
thing not unlike despair when I saw two figures stalking to- 
wards me over the stones. They walked one behind the other 
like tramps, but their pace was remarkable. The son led the 
way, a tall, ill-made, sombre, Scotch-looking man; the 
motlier followed, all in her Sunday's best, with an ele- 
gantly-embroidered ribbon to her cap, and a new felt hat 
atop, and proffering, as she strode along with kilted petti- 
coats, a string of obscene and blasphemous oaths. 

I hailed the son and asked him my direction. He pointed 
loosely west and northwest, muttered an inaudible com- 
ment, and, without slacking his pace for an instant, stalked 
on, as lie was going, right athAvart my path. The mother 
followed without so much as raising her head. I shouted 
and shouted after them, but they continued to scale the 
hillside, and turned a deaf ear to my outcries. At last, 
leaving Modestine by herself, I was constrained to run 
after them, hailing the while. They stopped as I drew 
near, the mother still cursing; and I could see she was a 
handsome, motherly, respectable-looking woman. The son 
once more answered me roughly and inaudibly, and was for 
setting out again. But this time I simply collared the 
mother, who was nearest me, and, apologizing for my vio- 
lence, declared that I could not let them go until they had 
put me on my road. They were neither of them offended 
— rather mollified than otherwise; told me I had only to 
follow them ; and then the mother asked me what I wanted 
by the lake at such an hour. I replied, in the Scotch man- 
ner, by inquiring if she had far to go herself. She told 
me, with another oath, that she had an hour and a half s 



THE GREEN DONKEY-DRIVER 161 

road before her. And then, without salutation, the pair 
strode f(n-ward again up the hillside in the gathering dusk. 

1 returned for Modestine, pushed her briskly forward^, 
and, after a sharp ascent of twenty minutes, reached the 
edge of a plateau. The view, looking back on my day's 
journey, was both wild and sad. Mount Mezenc and the 
peaks beyond St. Julien stood out in trenchant gloom 
against a cold glitter in the east; and the intervening 
field of liills had fallen together into one broad wash of 
shadow, except liere and there the outline of a wooded 
sugar-loaf in black, here and there a white irregular patch 
to represent a cultivated farm, and here and there a blot 
where the Loire, the Gazeille, or the Lausonne wandered 
in a gorge. 

Soon we were on a liigh-road, and surprise seized on my 
mind as I beheld a village of some magnitude close at 
hand ; for I had been told that the neighborhood of the 
lake was uninhabited except by trout. The road smoked 
in the twilight with children driving home cattle from the 
fields : and a pair of mounted stride-legged women, hat 
and cap and all, dashed past me at a hammering trot from 
the canton where they had been to church and market. I 
asked one of the children where I was. At Bouchet St. 
Nicolas, he told me. Thither, about a mile south of my 
destination, and on the other side of a. respectable summit, 
had these confused roads and treacherous peasantry con- 
ducted me. My shoulder was cut, so that it hurt sharply; 
my arm ached like toothache from perpetual beating; I 
gave up the lake and my design to camp, and asked for 
the auberoe.i 

1 aitherge. Inn, tavern. 



162 TKAVELS WITH A DONKEY 



I HAVE A GOAD 

The auberge of Bouchet St. Nicolas was among the 
least 23reteiitious I liave ever visited ; but I saw maii}^ more 
of the like upon my journey. Indeed, it was typical of 
these French highlands. Imagine a cottage of two stories, 
with a bench l)efore the door ; the stable and kitchen in a 
suite, so that Modestine and I could hear each other din- 
ing; furniture of the plainest, earthen floors, a single bed- 
chamber for travelers, and that without any convenience 
but beds. In the kitchen cooking and eating go forward 
side by side, and the family sleep at night. Any one who 
has a fancy to wash must do so in public at the common 
table. The food is sometimes spare; hard fish and ome- 
lette have been my portion more than once; the wine is 
of the smallest, the brandy abominable to man; and the 
visit of a fat sow, grouting under the table and rub- 
bing against your legs, is no impossible accompaniment to 
dinner. 

But the people of the inn, in nine cases out of ten, show 
themselves friendly and considerate. As soon as you cross 
the doors j^ou cease to be a stranger; and although this 
peasantry are rude and forbidding on the highway, they 
show a tincture of kind breeding when you share their 
hearth. At Bouchet, for instance, I uncorked my bottle of 
Beaujolais, and asked the host to join me. He would take 
but little. 

"I am an amateur^ of such wine, do you see?'^ he said, 
"and I am capable of leaving you not enough." 

In these hedge-inns the traveler is expected to eat with 
his own knife ; unless he ask, no other will be supplied : 
with a glass, a whang of bread, and an iron fork, the table 
is completely laid. My knife was cordially admired by the 

^ omateur. French : lover. 



I HAVE A GOAD 163 

landlord of Boiichet, and the spring filled him with wonder. 

"I should never have guessed that/' he said. "I would 
het/'' he added, weighing it in his hand, ''that this cost you 
not less than five francs.'' 

When I told him it had cost me twenty, his jaw dropped. 

He was a mild, handsome, sensible, friendly old man, 
astonishingly ignorant. His wife, who was not so pleasant 
in her manners, knew how to read, although I do not sup- 
pose she ever did so. She had a share of brains and spoke 
with a cutting emphasis, like one who ruled the roast. 

"My man knows nothing," she said, with an angry nod ; 
''he is like the beasts." 

And the old gentleman signified acquiescence with his 
head. There was no contempt on her part, and no shame 
on his ; the facts were accepted loyally, and no more about 
tlie matter. 

I was tightly cross-examined about my journey; and 
the lady understood in a moment, and sketched out what 
I should put into my book when I got home. "Whether 
people harvest or not in such or such a place ; if there were 
forests; studies of manners; what, for example, I and the 
master of the house say to you; the beauties of Nature, 
and all that." And she interrogated me with a look. 

"It is just that," said I. 

"You see," she added to her husband, "I understood 
that." 

They were both much interested by the story of my mis- 
adventures. 

"In the morning," said the husband, "I will make you 
something better than your cane. Such a beast as that 
feels nothing; it is in the proverb — dar coinmc un dne;^ 
you might beat her insensible with a cudgel, and yet you 
would arrive nowhere." 

Something better ! I little knew what he was offering. 

^ (7t(r comme un unc. Tough as an ass. 



1(51 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

The sleeping-room Avas furnished with two beds. 1 had 
one ; and I will own I was a little abaslicd to find a young 
man and his wife and child in the act of mounting into the 
other. This was my first experience of the sort; and if 
I am always to feel equally s-illy and extraneous, I pray God 
it be my last as well. I kept my eyes to myself, and know 
nothing of the w^oman except that she had beautiful arms, 
and seemed no whit abashed by my appearance. As a mat- 
ter of fact, the situation was more trying to me than to the 
pair. A pair keep each other in countenance; it is the 
single gentleman who has to blush. But I could not help 
attributing my sentiments to the husband, and sought to 
conciliate his tolerance with a cup of brandy from my flask. 
He told me that he was a cooper of Alais traveling to St. 
Etienne in search of work, and that in his spare moments 
he followed the fatal calling of a maker of matches. Me 
he readily enough divined to be a brandy merchant. 

I was up first in the morning (Monday, September 23d), 
and hastened my toilet guiltily, so as to leave a clear field 
for madam, the cooper's wife. I drank a bowl of milk, and 
set if to explore the neighborhood of Bouchet. It was 
perisliing cold, a gra}^ Avindy, wintry morning; misty 
clouds flew fast and low; the wind piped over the naked 
platform ; and the only speck of color was away behind 
Mount Mezenc and the eastern hills, where the sky still 
wore the orange of the dawn. 

It was five in the morning, and four thousand feet above 
the sea ; and I had to bury my hands in my pockets and 
trot. People were trooping out to the labors of the field 
by twos and threes, and all turned round to stare upon the 
stranger. I had seen them coming back last night, I saw 
them going afield again; and there was the life of Bouchet 
in a nutshell. 

"When I came back to the inn for a bit of breakfast, the 



I HAVE A GOAD IGo 

landlady was in the kitchen combing out her daughter's 
hair ; and I made her my compliments upon its beauty. 

'^0 no," said the mother ; '4t is not so beautiful as it 
oiidit to l)e. Look, it is too fine." 

Thus does a wise peasantry console itself under adverse 
physical circumstances, and, by a startling democratic 
process, the defects of the majority decide the type of 
beauty. 

''And where," said I, "is monsieur?" 

''The master of the house is up-stairs," she answered, 
"making you a goad." 

Blessed be the man who invented goads ! Blessed the 
innkeeper of Bouchet St. Nicholas, who introduced me to 
their use ! This plain wand, with an eighth of an inch of 
pin, was indeed a sceptre when he put it in my hands. 
Thenceforward Modestine was my slave. A prick, and 
she passed the most inviting stable-door. A prick, and 
she broke forth into a gallant little trotlet that devoured 
the miles. It was not a remarkable speed, when all was 
said ; and we took four hours to cover ten miles at the best 
of it'. But what a heavenly change since yesterday ! ^o 
more wielding of the ugly cudgel ; no more flailing with 
an aching arm; no more broadsword exercise, but a dis- 
creet and gentlemanly fence. And what although now and 
then a drop of blood should appear on Modestine's mouse- 
colored, wedge-like. rump? I should have preferred it 
otherwise, indeed ; but yesterday's exploits had purged my 
heart of all humanity. The perverse little devil, since she 
would not be taken with kindness, must even go with 
pricking. 

It was bleak and bitter cold, and, except a cavalcade of 
stride-legged ladies and a pair of post-runners, the road 
was dead solitary all the way to Pradelles. I scarce remem- 
ber an incident but one. A handsome foal with a bell 
about his neck came charging up to us upon a stretch of 



16(3 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

common^ sniffed the air martially as one about to do great 
deeds, and, suddenly thinking otherwise in his green young 
heart, put al)()ut and galloped off as he had come, the bell 
tinkling in the wind. For a long while afterwards I saw 
his noble attitude as he drew up, and heard the note of 
his bell; and when I struck the high-road, the song of 
the telegraph-wires seemed to continue the same music. 

Pradelles stands on a hillside, high above the Allier, sur- 
rounded by rich meadows. , They were cutting aftermath 
on all sides, which gave the neighborhood, this gusty 
autumn morning, an untimely smell of liay. On the oppo- 
site bank of the Allier the land kept mounting for miles 
to the horizon; a tanned and sallow autumn landscape, 
with black blots of fir-wood and white roads wandering 
through the hills. Over all this the clouds shed a uniform 
and purplish shadow, sad and somewhat menacing, exag- 
gerating height and distance, and throwing into still 
higher relief the twisted ribbons of the highway. It was 
a cheerless prospect, but one stimulating to a traveler. For 
I was now upon the lim-it of Vela}', and all that I beheld 
l^y in another county — wild Gevaudan, mountainous, un- 
cultivated, and but recently disforested from terror of the 
wolves. 

Wolves, alas, like bandits, seem to flee the traveler's ad- 
vance; and you may trudge through all our comfortalole 
Europe, and not meet with an adventure worth the name. 
But here, if anywhere, a man was on the frontiers of hope. 
For this was the land of the ever-memorable Beast, the 
Na^^oleon Buonaparte of wolves. What a career was .his ! 
He lived ten months at free quarters in Gevaudan and 
Vivarais; he ate women and children and "shepherdesses 
celebrated for their beauty ;" he pursued armed horsemen ; 
he has been seen at broad noonday chasing a post-chaise 
and outrider along the king's high-road, and chaise and 
outrider fleeing before him at the gallop. He was pla- 



I HAVE A GOAD IG7 

carded like a political offender, and ten thousand francs 
were offered for his head. And jet, when he was shot and 
sent to A^ersailles, behold! a common wolf, and even small 
for that. "Though I could reach from pole to pole/' sang 
Alexander Pope; the little corporaP shook Europe; and if 
all wolves had been as this wolf, they would have changed 
the history of man. M. Elie Berthet has made him the 
hero of a novel, which I have read, and do not wish to read 
again. 

1 hurried over my lunch, and was proof against the land- 
lady's desire that I should visit our Lady of Pradelles, 
"who performed many miracles, although she was of wood ;" 
and before three-quarters of an hour I was goading Modes- 
tine down the steep descent that leads to Langogne on the 
Allier. On both sides of the road, in big dusty fields, farm- 
ers were preparing for next spring. Every fifty yards a 
yoke of great-iiecked stolid oxen were patiently haling at 
the plough. I saw one of these mild, formidable servants of 
the glebe, who took a sudden interest in Modestine and me. 
The furrow down which he was journeying lay at an angle 
to the road, and his head was solidly fixed to the yoke like 
those of caryatides below a ponderous cornice ; but - he 
screwed round his big honest eyes and followed us with a 
ruminating look, until his master bade him turn the plough 
and proceed to reascend the field. From all these furrowing 
ploughshares, from the feet of oxen, from a laborer here 
and there who was breaking the dry clods with a hoe, the 
wind carried away a thin dust like so much smoke. It was 
a fine, busy, breathing, rustic landscape; and as I con- 
tinued to descend, the highlands of Gevaudan kept mount- 
ing in front of me against the sky. 

I had crossed the Loire the day before; now I was to 
cross the Allier; so near are tliese two confluents in their 
youtlh Just at the bridge of Langogne, as the long-prom- 

1 The little corporal. Napoleon Bonaparte. 



rl68 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

ised rain was beginning to fall, a lassie of some seven or 
eight addressed me in the sacramental phrase, "D'oast que 
vous venez?"^ She did it with so high an air that she set 
me langhing; and this cut her to the quick. She was evi- 
dently one who reckoned on respect, and stood looking after 
me in silent dudgeon, as I crossed the bridge and entered 
the county of Gevaudan. 



UPPER GEVAUDAN- 

" The way also here was vern wearisome through dirt and 
slabhiness ; nor was there on all this grownd so much as one inn 
or victualling -house wherein to refresh the feebler sort." — Pil- 
grim 's Progress. 

The next day (Tuesday, September 24th), it was two 
o'clock in the afternoon before 1 got my journal written up 
and my knapsack repaired, for 1 was determined to carry 
my knapsack in the future and have no more ado with 
baskets; and half an hour afterwards I set out for Le 
Cheylard TEveque, a place on the borders of the forest of 
Mercoire. A man, I was told, should walk there in an 
hour and a half; and I thought it scarce too ambitious to 
suppose that a man encumbered Avith a donkey might cover 
the same distance in four hours. 

All the way up the long hill from Langogne it rained 
and hailed alternately ; the wind kept freshening steadily, 
although slowly; plentiful hurrying clouds — some drag- 
ging veils of straight rain-shower, others massed and lumi- 
nous, as though promising snow — careered out of the north 

'^"D'ou'st que roiis renez?" "Where do you come from?" 
^Upper Gevaudan. Gevaudan was an ancient district in southern 
France nearly corresponding to the present department of Lozere. 



UPPEE GEVAUDAN 169 

and followed me along my way. 1 was soon out of the cul- 
tivated basin of the Allier, and away from the ploughing 
oxen, and snch-like sights of the country. Moor, heathery 
marsh, tracts of rock and pines, woods of birch all jewelled 
with the autumn yellow, here and there a few naked cnt- 
tages and bleak fields, — these were the characters of the 
country. Hill and valley followed valley and hill; the 
little green and stony cattle-tracks wandered in and out of 
one another, split into three or four, died away in marshy 
hollows, and began again sporadically on hillsides or at the 
borders of a wood. 

There was no direct road to Cheylard, and it was no easy 
affair to make a passage in this uneven country and through 
this intermittent labyrinth of tracks. It must have been 
about four when I struck Sagnerousse, and went on my w^ay 
rejoicing in a sure point of departure. Two hours after- 
wards, the dusk rapidly falling, in a lull of the wind, T 
issued from a fir-wood where I had long been wandering, 
and found, not the looked-for village, but another marish 
bottom among rough-and-tumble hills. For some time past 
I had heard the ringing of cattle-bells ahead; and nov\-, as 
I came out of the skirts of the wood, I saw near upon a 
dozen cows and perhaps as many more black figures, which 
I conjectured to be children, although the mist had almost 
unrecognizably exaggerated their forms. These were all 
silently following each other round and round in a circle, 
now taking hands, now breaking up with chains and rever- 
ences. A dance of children appeals to very innocent and 
lively thoughts; but, at nightfall on the marshes, the thing 
was eerie and fantastic to behold. Even I, who am well 
enough read in Herl)ert Spencer,^ felt a sort of silence fall 
for an instant on my mind. The next, I was pricking 

^Herbert Spencer. Stevenson is apparently alluding to Spejicer's 
characteristic endeavor to connect his philosophic position with natural 
phenomena and scientific laws. 



170 TKAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

Modestine forward, and guiding lier like an unruly ship 
through the open. In a path, she. went doggedly ahead of 
her own accord, as hefore a fair wind ; Ijut once on the turf 
or among heather, and the brute became demented. The 
tendency of lost travelers to go round in a circle was devel- 
oped in her to the degree of passion, and it took all the 
steering I had in me to keep even a decently straight course 
through a single field. 

While I was thus desperately tacking through the bog, 
children and cattle began to disperse, nntil only a pair of 
girls remained behind. From these I sought direction on 
my path. The peasantry in general were but little disposed 
to counsel a wayfarer. One old devil simply retired into 
his house, and barricaded the door on my approach ; and 
I might beat and shout myself hoarse, he turned a deaf ear. 
Another, having given me a direction Avhich, as I found 
afterwards, I had misunderstood, complacently watched me 
going wrong without adding a sign. He did not care a 
stalk of parsley if 1 wandered all night upon the hills I 
As for these two girls, they were a pair of impudent sly 
sluts, with not a thought but mischief. One put out her 
tongue at me, the other bade me follow the cows; and they 
both giggled and jogged each other's elbows. The Beast 
of Gevaudan ate about a hundred children of this district; 
I began to think of him with sympathy. 

Leaving the girls, I pushed on tlirough the bog, and got 
into another wood and upon a well-marked road. It grew 
darker and darker. Modestine, suddenly beginning to 
smell mischief, bettered the pace of her own accord, and 
from that time forward gave me no trouble. It was the 
first sign of intelligence 1 had occasion to remark in her. 
At the same time, the wind freshened into half, a gale, and 
another heavy discharge of rain came flying np out of the 
north. At the other side of the wood I sidited some red 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 171 

windows in the dusk. This was the hamlet of Fouzilhic; 
thiee houses on a hillside, near a wood ot birches. Here I 
found a delightful old man, who came a little way with 
me in the rain to put me safely on the road for Cheylard. 
He would hear of no reward; but shook his hands above 
his head almost as if in menace, and refused volubly and 
shrillv, in unmitigated patois. 

All seemed right at last. My thouglits began to turn 
upon dinner and a fireside, and my heart was agreeal)ly 
softened in my bosom. Alas, and I was on the brink of 
new and greater miseries ! Suddenl}^ at a single swoop, 
the night fell. I have been abroad in many a black night, 
but never in a blacker. A glimmer of rocks, a glimmer of 
the track where it was well beaten, a certain fleecy density, 
or night within night, for a tree, — this was all that I could 
discriminate. The sky was simply darkness overhead ; even 
the flying clouds pursued their way invisibly to human eye- 
sight. I could not distinguish my hand at arm's length 
from the track, nor my goad, at the same distance, from the 
meadows or the sky. 

Soon the road that 1 was following split, after the fash- 
ion of the country, into three or four in a piece of rocky 
meadow. Since Modestine had shown such a fancy for 
beaten roads, I tried her instinct in this predicament. But 
the instinct of an ass is what might be expected from the 
name; in half a miniite she was clambering round and 
round among some boulders, as lost a donkey as you would 
wish to see. I should have camped long before had I been 
properly provided ; but as this was to be so short a stage, 
1 had brought no wine, no bread for myself, and a little 
over a pound for my lady-friend. Add to this, that I and 
Modestine were both handsomely wetted by the showers. 
But now, if I could have found some water, I should have 
camped at once in spite of all. Water, however, being 



172 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

entirely absent, except in the form of raia, I determined to 
return to Fonzilhic, and ask a guide a little further on my 
way — "a little farther lend thy guiding hand." 

The thing was easy to decide, hard to accomplish. In 
this sensible roaring blackness 1 was sure of nothing but 
the direction of the wind. To this I set my face; the road 
had disappeared, and I went across country, now in marshy 
opens, now baffled by walls unscalable to Modestine, until 
I came once more in sight of some red windows. This time 
they were differently disposed. It was not Fouzilhic, but 
Fouzilhac, a hamlet little distant from the other in space, 
but worlds away in the spirit of its in]ial)itants. I tied 
Modestine to a gate, and groped forward, stumbling among 
rocks, plunging mid-leg' in bog, until I gained the entrance 
of the village. In the first lighted house there was a 
woman who would not open to me. She could do nothing, 
she cried to me through the door, being alone and lame; 
but if I would apply at the next house, there was a man 
who could help me if he had a mind. 

They came to the next door in force, a man, two women, 
and a girl, and brought a pair of lanterns to examine the 
wayfarer. The man was not ill-looking, but had a shifty 
smile. He leaned against the doorpost, and heard me state 
my case. All I asked was a guide as far as Cheylard. 

"C'cst que, voyez-vous, il fait noir/'^ said he. 

J told him that was just my reason for requiring help. 

*'I understand that," said he, looking uncomfortable; 
" inais — cest — de la pcine."^ 

1 was willing to pay, I said. He shook his head. I rose 
as high as ten francs; but he continued to shake his head. 
^'Xai:ne your own price, then," said I. 

"Ce nest pas Qa''^ he said at length, and with evident 

'^"C'est que, voyez-vous, il fait noir." "Look here, let me tell you 
it's getting dark." 

2 "mais — c'est — de la peine." "But — it's — difficult." 

3"Ce n'est pas Qa." "It isn't that — that's not what's bothering me." 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 173 

difficulty ; "but I am not going to cross the door — mais je 
nc soriirai pas de la porte/' 

I grew a little warm, and asked him what he proposed 
that I should do. 

"Where are you going beyond Cheylard?'' he asked by 
way of answer. 

"That is no affair of yours,'' I returned, for I was not 
going to indulge his bestial curiosity ; "it changes nothing 
in my present predicament." 

''C'cst vrai, t^a,"^ he acknowledged, with a laugh; ''oul, 
c'est vrai. Et cVou venez-vous?" 

A better man than I miglit have felt nettled. 

"'0/' said I, "I am not going to answer any of your 
questions, so you may spare yourself the trouble of putting 
them. I am late enough already; I want help. If you wiJi 
not guide me yourself, at least help me to find some one else 
who will." 

"Hold on," he cried suddenly. "Was it not you who 
passed in the meadow while it was still day ?" 

"Yes, yes," said the girl, whom I had not hitherto recog- 
nized; "it was monsieur; I told him to follow the cow." 

"As for you, mademoiselle," said I, "you are a farceuse/'^ 

"And," added the man, "what the devil have you done to 
be still here?" 

What the devil, indeed ! But there I was. "^The great 
thingj" said I, "is to make an end of it;" and once more 
proposed that he should help me to find a guide. 

"C'cst que," he said again, ''c'est que — il fait noir." 

"Very well," said 1 ; "take one of your lanterns." 

"Xo," he cried, drawing a thought backward, and again 
intrenching himself behind one of his former phrases; "I 
will not cross the door." 

I looked at him. I saw unaffected terror struggling on 

1 "CV.sf vrai, <^a,'' etc. "That's true, to be sure ;— yes, that's true. 
But whore do yor come from?" 

^"farceuse." Ridiculous persou, tom-fuol. 



174 TEAYELS WITH A DONKEY 

Ids face with unaffGctcd shame; he was smiling pitifully 
and wetting his lip with his tongue, like a detected school- 
1)0}^ I drew a hrief picture of my state, and asked him 
what I was to do. 

"I don't know," he said ; ^^I will not cross the door." 

Here was tlie Beast of Gevaudan, and no mistake. 

"Sir/' said T, with m}^ most commanding manners, "you 
are a coward."' 

And with that I turned my hack upon the family party, 
who hastened to retire within tlieir fortifications; and the 
famous door was closed again, hut not till I had overheard 
the sound of laughter. FIlia harhara paler harharior} Let 
me say it in the plural : the Beasts of Gevaudan. 

The lanterns had somewhat dazzled me, and I ploughed 
distressfully among stones and ruhhish-heaps. All thp 
other houses in the village were hoth dark and silent; and 
though I knocked at here and there a door, my knocking 
was unanswered. It was a had husiness ; I gave up Fouzil- 
liac with my curses. The rain had stopped, and the wind, 
which still kept rising, hegan to dry my coat and trousers. 
"Very well," thought I, "water or no water, I must camp.'' 
But the first thing was to return to Modestine. I am pretty 
sure I was twenty minutes gi'oping for my lady in the 
dark; and if it had not heen for the unkindly services of 
the bog, into which I once more stumbled, I might have 
still been groping for her at the dawn. My next business 
was to gain the shelter of a wood, for the wind was cold as 
well as boisterous. How, in this well-wooded district, I 
should have been so long in finding one, is another of the 
insoluble mysteries of this day's adventures; but I will take 
my oath that I put near an hour to the discovery. 

At last black trees began to show upon my left, and, sud- 

'^ Fllia harhara paicr harharior. Father more barbarous than thy 
barbarous daughter : a parody on the first line of Horace's ode 
(Book I, XVI), "O matro pulchra filia pulchrior" ; "O daughter lovelier 
than thy Icvoly mother."' 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 175 

denh' crossing the road, made a cave of unmitigated 1)lack- 
ness right in front. I call it a cave without exaggeration ; 
to pass below tliat arch of leaves was like entering a dun- 
geon. I felt about until my hand encountered a stout 
branch, and to this 1 tied Modestine, a haggard, drenched, 
desponding donke}-. Then I lowered my pack, laid it along 
the wall on the margin of the road, and unbuckled the 
straps. I knew well enough where the lantern was; but 
where were the candles? I groped and groped among the 
tumbled articles, and, while I was thus groping, suddenly 
I touched the spirit-lamp. Salvation ! This would serve 
my turn as well. The wind roared unwearyingly among the 
trees ; I could hear the boughs tossing and the leaves churn- 
ing through half a mile of forest; yet the scene of my 
encampment was not only as black as the pit, but admirably 
sheltered. At the second match the wick caught flame. 
The light was both livid and shifting; but it cut me off 
from the universe, and doubled the darkness of the sur- 
]-ounding night. 

I tied Modestine more conveniently for herself, and 
broke up half the black bread for her supper, reserving the 
other half against the morning. Then I gathered what I 
should want within reach, took off my wet boots and gaiters, 
which I wrapped in my waterproof, arranged my knap- 
sack for a pillow under the flap of my sleeping-bag, insin- 
uated my limbs into the interior, and buckled myself in like 
a bambino.^ I opened- a tin of Bologna sausage and broke 
a cake of chocolate, and that was all I had to eat. It may 
sound offensive, l)ut I ate them together, bite by bite, by 
way of bread and meat. All I had to wash down this 
revolting mixture was neat brand}^: a revolting beverage 
in itself. But I was rare and hungry ; ate well, and smoked 
one of the best cigarettes in my experience. Then I put a 
stone in my straw hat, pulled the flap of my fur cap over 

1 hamhino. Italian ; baby. 



176 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

my neck and eyes, })ut my revolver ready to my hand, and 
snuggled well down among the sheepskins. 

I questioned at first if I were sleepy, for I felt my heart 
beating faster than usual, as if with an agreeable excite- 
ment to wliich my mind remained a stranger. But as soon 
as my eyelids touched, that subtle glue leaped between 
them, and they would no more come separate. The wind 
among the trees was my lunal)y. Sometimes it sounded 
for minutes together with a steady even rush, not rising 
nor abating; and again it would swell and burst like a 
great crashing breaker, and the trees would patter me all 
over with big drops from the rain of the afternoon. Night 
after night, in my own bedroom in tlie country, I have 
given ear to tliis perturl)ing concert of tlie wind among 
the Avoods; but whether it was a difference in the trees, 
or the lie of the ground, or because I was myself outside 
and in the midst of it, the fact remains that the wind sang 
to a different tune among these woods of Gevaudan. I 
hearkened and hearkened ; and meanwhile sleep took grad- 
ual possession of my body and subdued my thoughts and 
senses; but still my last waking effort was to listen and 
distinguish, and my last conscious state was one of wonder 
at the foreign clamor in my ears. 

Twice in the course of the dark hours — once when a stone 
galled me underneath the sack, and again when the poor 
patient Modestine, growing angry, pawed and stamped 
upon the road — I was recalled for a brief while to con- 
sciousness, and saw a star or two overhead, and the lace- 
like edge of the foliage against the sky. When I awoke 
for the third time (Wednesday, September 25th), the 
world was flooded with a blue light, the mother of the dawn. 
I saw the leaves laboring in the wind and the ribbon of 
the road; and, on turning my head, there was Modestine, 
tied to a beech, and standing half across the path in an 
attitude of inimitable patience. I closed my eyes again. 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 177 

and set to thinking over the experience of the night. I was 
surprised to find how easy and pleasant it had been, even 
in this tempestuous weather. The stone which annoyed me 
woukl not have been there, liad I not been forced to camp 
blindfold in the opaque night; and I had felt no other 
inconvenience, except when my feet encountered the lan- 
tern or the second volume of Peyrat's Pastors of the Desert 
among the mixed contents of my sleeping-bag ; nay, more, 
I had felt not a touch of cold, and awakened with unusually 
lightsome and clear sensations. 

With that, I shook myself, got once more into my boots 
and gaiters, and, breaking up the rest of the bread for 
Modestine, strolled about to see in what part of the world 
I had awakened. Ulysses, left on Ithaca,^ and with a mind 
unsettled by the goddess, was not more pleasantly astray. 
I have been after an adventure all my lite, a pure dispas- 
sionate adventure, such as befell early and iieroic voyagers ; 
and thus to be found by morning in a random woodside 
nook in Gevaudan — not knowing north from south, as 
strange to my surroundings as the first man upon the earth, 
an inland castawa}' — was to find a fraction of my day- 
dreams realized. I was on the skirts of a little wood of 
birch, sprinkled with a few beeches; behind, it adjoined 
another wood of fir; and in front, it broke up and went 
down in open order into a shallow and meadowy dale. All 
around there were bare liill-tops, some near, some far away, 
as the perspective closed or opened, but none apparently 
much higher than the rest. The wind huddled the trees. 
The golden specks of autumn in the birches tossed shiver- 
ingly. Overhead the sky was full of strings and shreds of 
vapor, flying, vanishing, reappearing, and turning about an 

1 Ulysses left on Ithaca. When Ulysses, or Odysseus, the hero of 
Homer's Odyssey, after twenty years of absence from his ishmd king- 
dom of Ithaca, had been set ashore in his sleep by the I'haeacians, 
I'allas Athene shed a mist about him, so that the objects of his native 
•and appeared strange to his eyes. 



178 TRAA^ELS WITH A DONKEY 

axis like tumblers^ as the wind hounded them through 
heaven. It was wild weather and famishing cold. I atu 
some chocolate, swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and 
smoked a cigarette before the cold should have time to dis- 
able my fingers. And by the time I had got all this done, 
and had made my pack and bound it on the pack-saddle, 
the day was tiptoe on the threshold of the east. We had 
not gone many steps along the lane, before the sun, still 
invisible to me, sent a glow of gold over some cloud moun- 
tains that lay ranged along the eastern sky. 

The wind had us on the stern, and hurried us bitingly 
forward. I buttoned myself into my coat, and walked on in 
a pleasant frame of mind with all men, when suddenly, at 
a corner, there was Fouzilhic, once more in front of me. 
Nor only that, but there was the old gentleman who had 
escorted me so far the night before, running out of his 
house at sight of me, with hands upraised in horror. 

"My poor boy !'' he cried, "what does this mean?" 

I told him what had happened. He beat his old hands 
like clappers in a mill, to think how lightly he had let me 
go ; but when he heard of the man of Fouzilhac, anger and 
depression seized upon his mind. 

"This time, at least," said he, "there shall be no mis- 
take." 

And he limped along, for he was very rheumatic, for 
about half a mile, and until I was almost within sight of 
Cheylard, the destination I had hunted for so long. 



CHEYLARD AND LUC 179 

CHEYLARD AND LUC 

Candidly, it seemed little worthy of all this searching. 
A few hroken ends of village, with no particular street, bnt 
a succession of open places heaped with ]ogs and fagots ; a 
couple of tilted crosses, a shrine to our Lady of all Graces 
on the summit of a little hill ; and all this, upon a rattling 
highland river, in the corner of a naked valley. What went 
ye out for to see ? thought I to myself. But the place had a 
life of its own. I found a board commemorating the liber- 
alities of Cheylard for the past year, hung up, like a banner, 
in the diminutive and tottering church. In 1877, it ap- 
peared, the inhabitants subscribed forty-eight francs ten 
centimes for the "Work of the Propagation of the Faith.'' 
Some of this, I could not help hoping, would be applied to 
my native land. Chejdard scrapes together halfpence for 
the darkened souls in Edinburgh ; while Balquidder and 
Dunrossness bemoan the ignorance of Rome. Thus, to the 
high entertainment of the angels, do we pelt each other 
with evangelists, like school-boys bickering in the snow. 

The inn was again singularly unpretentious. The whole 
furniture of a not ill-to-do family was in the kitchen : the 
beds, the cradle, the clothes, the plate-rack, the meal-chest, 
and the photograph of the parish priest. There were five 
children, one of whom was set to its morning prayers at the 
stair-foot soon after my arrival, and a sixth would ere long 
be forthcoming. I was kindly received hy these good folk. 
They were much interested in my misadventure. The 
wood in which I had slept belonged to them; the man of 
Fouzilhac they thought a monster of iniquity, and coun- 
seled me warmly to summon him at law — "because I might 
have died." The good wife was horror-stricken to see me 
drink over a pint of uncrcamed milk. 

"You will do yourself an evil," she said. "Termit me to 
boil it for you." 



^gO TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

After I had begun the morning on this delightful liquor, 
she having an infinity of things to arrange, I was per- 
mitted — nay, requested — to make a bowl of chocolate for 
myself. My boots and gaiters were hung up to dry, and, 
seeing me trying to write my journal on my knee, the eldest 
daughter let down a hinged table in the chimney-corner for 
my convenience. Here I wrote, drank my chocolate, and 
finally ate an omelette before I left. The table was thick 
mth dust; for, as they explained, it was not used except 
in winter weather. I had a clear look up the vent, through 
brown agglomerations of soot and blue vapor, to the sky; 
and whenever a handful of twigs was thrown on to the fire, 
my legs were scorched by the blaze. 

The husband had begun life as a muleteer, and when I 
eame to charge Modestine showed himself full of the pru- 
dence of his art. ^'You will have to change this package," 
gaid he ; "it ought to be in two parts, and then you might 
have double the weight." 

I explained that I wanted no more weight; and for no 
donkey hitherto created would I cut- my sleeping-bag in 
two. 

"It fatigues her, however," said the innkeeper; "it fa- 
tigues her greatly on the march. Look." 

Alas, there were her two forelegs.no better than raw beef 
cm the inside, and 'blood Was running from under her tail. 
They told me when I left, and I was ready to believe it, 
that before a few days I should come to love Modestine 
like a dog. Three days had passed, we had shared some 
misadventures, and my heart was still as cold as a potato 
towards my beast of burden. She was pretty enough to 
look at; but then she had given proof of dead stupidity, 
redeemed indeed by patience, but aggravated by flashes of 
sorry and ill-judged light-heartedness. And I own this new 
discovery seemed another point against her. "What the devil 
iras the good of a she-ass if she could not carry a sleeping- 



CHEYLARD AND LUC 181 

bag and a few necessaries? I saw the end of the fable^ 
rapidly approaching, when I should have to carry Modes- 
tine, .^sop was the man to know the world ! I assure yoii 
1 set out with heavy thoughts upon my short day's march. 

It was not only heavy thoughts about Modestine that 
weighted me upon the way; it was a leaden business alto- 
gether. For first, the wind blew so rudely that I had to 
hold on the pack with one hand from Cheylard to Luc ; and 
second, my road lay through one of the most beggarly coun- 
tries in the world. It was like the worst of the Scotcfi 
highlands, onl}^ worse; cold, naked, and ignoble, scant of 
wood, scant of heather, scant of life. A road and some* 
fences broke the unvarying waste, and the line of the road 
Avas marked by upright pillars, to serve in time of snow. 

Wh}^ any one should desire to visit either Luc or Chey- 
lard is more than my much-inventing -spirit can suppose. 
For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. T 
travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move ; to feel 
the needs and hitches of our life more nearly; to come 
down off this feather-bed of civilization, and find the glo])e 
granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints. Alas, as 
we get up in life, and are more preoccupied with our affairs, 
even a holiday is*a thing that must be worked for. To hold 
a pack upon a pack-saddle against a gale out of the freezing 
north is no high industry, but it is one that serves to Qccupy 
and compose the mind. And when the present is so exact- 
ing, who can annoy himself about the future? 

I came out at length above the Allier. A more unsightly 
prospect at this season of the year it would be hard to 
fancy. Shelving hills rose round it on all sides, here dab- 
bled with wood and fields, there rising to peaks alternately 
naked and hairy with pines. The color throughout was 
black or ashen, and came to a point in the ruins of the 

1 In the fable referred to, a miUer and his son, whose manner 
of driving an ass along the road has boen variously criticised by 
passei's-by, finally tie him to a pole and carry him. 



183 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

castle of Luc, which pricked up inipudeiitly from below my 
feet, carrying on a pinnacle a tall white statue of our Lady, 
wdiich, I heard with interest, weighed fifty quintals, and 
was to be dedicated on the 6th of October. Through this 
sorry landscape trickled the AUier and a tributary of nearly 
equal size, which came down to join it through a broad 
nude valley in Yivarais. The weather had somewhat light- 
ened, and the clouds massed in squadron; but the fierce 
wind still hunted them through heaven, and cast great 
ungainly splashes of shadow and sunlight over the scene. 

Luc itself was a straggling double file of houses wedged 
between hill and river. It had no beauty, nor was there any 
notable feature, save the old castle overhead with its fifty 
quintals of brand-new Madonna. But the inn was clean 
and large. The kitchen, with its two box-beds hung with 
clean check curtains, with its wide stone chimney, its chim- 
ney-shelf four yards long and garnished with lanterns and 
religious statuettes, its array of chests and pair of ticking 
clocks, was the very model of what a kitchen ought to be; 
a melodrama kitchen, suitable for bandits or noblemen in 
disguise. Xor was the scene disgraced by the landhidy, a 
handsome, silent, dark old woman, clothed and hooded in 
black like a nun. Even the public bedroon? had a character 
of its own, with the long deal tables and 'benches, where 
fifty might have dined, set out as for .a harvest-home, and 
the three box-beds along the wall. In one of these, lying 
on straw and covered with a pair of table-napkins, did I do 
penance all night long in goose-flesh and chattering teeth, 
and sigh from time to time as I awakened for my sheepskin 
sack and the lee of some great wood. 



OUE LADY OF THE SNOWS 183 



OUE LADY OF THE SNOWS 

"I behold 
The House, the Brotherhood austere — 
And what am I, that I am here." 

— Matthew Arnold. 



FATHER APOLLIXARIS 

Next morning (Thursday, 20th September) I took the 
road in a new order. The sack was no longer doubled, but 
hung at full length across the saddle, a green sausage six 
feet long with a tuft of blue wool hanging out of either 
end. It was more picturesque, it spared the donkey, and, 
as I began to see, it would insure stability, blow high, blow 
low. But it was not without a pang that I had so decided. 
For although I had purchased a new cord, and made all as 
fast as I was able, I was yet jealously uneasy lest the flaps 
should tumble out and scatter my effects along the line of 
march. 

My way lay up the bald valley of the river, along the 
march of Vivarais and Gevaudan. The hills of Gevaudan 
on the right were a little more naked, if anything, than 
those of Vivarais upon the left, and the former had a 
monopoly of a low dotty underwood that grew thickly in 
the gorges and died out in solitary burrs upon the shoul- 
ders and the summits. Black bricks of fir-wood were plas- 
tered here and there upon both sides, and here and there 
were cultivated fields. A railway ran beside the river; the 
only bit of railway in Gevaudan, although there are many 
proposals afoot and surveys being made, and even, as they 
tell me, a station standing readv-built in Mende. A 3'ear 
or two hence and this may be another world. The desert 



184 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

is beleaguered. Xow may some Languedocian Wordsworth^ 
turn the sonnet into patois : "Mountains and vales and 
floods, heard ye that whistle ?" 

At a place called La Bastide I was directed to leave the 
river, and follow a road that mounted on the left among 
the hills of Vivarais, the modern Ardeche ; for I was now 
come within a little way of my strange destination, the 
Trai)pist- monastery of our Lady of the Snows. The sun 
came out as I left the shelter of a pine-wood, and I beheld 
suddenly a fine wild landscape to the south. High rocky 
hills, as blue as sapphire, closed tlie view, and between these 
lay ridge upon ridge, heathery, craggy, the sun glittering on 
veins of rock, the underwood clambering in the hollows, as 
rude as God made them at the first. There was not a sign 
of man's hand in all the prospect ; and indeed not a trace 
of his passage, save where generation after generation had 
walked in twisted footpaths in and out among the beeches, 
and up and down upon the channeled slopes. The mists, 
which had hitherto beset me, were now broken into clouds, 
and fled swiftly and shone brightly in the sun. I drew a 
long breath. It was grateful to come, after so long, upon 
a scene of some attraction for the human heart. I own I 
like definite form in what my eyes are to rest upon ; and 
if landscapes were sold, like tlie sheets of characters of my 
boyhood, one penny plain and twopence colored, I should 
go the length of twopence every day of my life. 



''■ Lanfiucdocian WordsuortJi. Langiiedoc was an ancient govern- 
ment of southern France : tire name is stiU applied to the section 
which constitutes its territory. The reference is to one of two sonnets 
written hy William Wordsworth in protest against the intrusion upon 
rural retirement and the injury to natural scenery threatened by the 
building of a railway. The lines Stevenson has in mind are : 
'"Heard ye that whistle? As her long-linked Train 
Swept onwards . . . 

Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on you 

To share the passion of a just disdain." 
2 Trappist. The Trappists, so called from the Abbey of La Trappe, 
in France, are a branch of the Cistercian order. Their discipline 
enjoins severe self-denial. 



OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS 185 

But if things had grown better to the south, it was still 
desolate and inclement near at hand. A spidery cross on 
every hill-top marked the neighborhood of a religious 
house; and a quarter of a mile beyond, the outlook south- 
ward opening out and growing bolder with every step, a 
white statue of the Virgin at the corner of a young planta- 
tion directed the traveler to our Lady of the Snows. Here, 
then, I struck leftward, and pursued my way, driving my 
secular donkey before me, and creaking in my secular boots 
and gaiters, towards the asylum of silence. 

I had not gone very far ere the wind brought to me the 
clanging of a bell, and somehow, I can scarce tell why, my 
heart sank within me at the sound. 1 have rarely ap- 
proached anything with more unaffected terror than the 
monastery of our Lady of the Snows. This it is to have 
had a Protestant education. And suddenly, on turning a 
corner, fear took hold on me from head to foot — slavish 
superstitious fear; and though I did not stop in my ad- 
vance, yet I went on slowly, like a man who should have 
passed a bourne unnoticed, and strayed into the country 
of the dead. For there upon the narrow new-made road, 
between the stripling pines, was a mediaeval friar, fighting 
with a barrowful of turfs. Every Sunday of my childhood 
I used to study the Hermits of Marco Sadeler — enchanting 
prints, full of wood and field and mediaeval landscapes, as 
large as a county, for the imagination to go a-traveling in ; 
and here, sure enough, was one of Marco Sadeler^s heroes. 
He was robed in wliite like any specter, and the hood fall- 
ing back, in the instancy of his contention with the barrow, 
disclosed a pate as bald and yellow as a skull. He might 
have been buried any time these thousand years, and all the 
lively parts of him resolved into earth and broken up with 
the farmer's harrow. 

I was troubled besides in my mind as to etiquette. Durst 
I address a person who was under a vow of silence? Clearly 



186 TEAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

not. But drawing near, 1 clolfed my cap to liim with a far- 
away' superstitious reverence. lie nodded back, and cheer- 
fully addressed me. Was I going to the monastery ? Who 
was I ? An Englishman ? Ah, an Irishman, then ? 

"Xo," I said, "a Scotsman.'' 

A Scotsman ? Ah, he had never seen a Scotsman before. 
And he looked me all over, his good, honest, brawny counte- 
nance shining with interest, as a boy might look upon a lion 
or an alligator. From him I learned with disgust that I 
could not be received at our Lady of the Snows; I might 
get a meal, perhaps, but that was all. And then, as our 
talk ran on, and it turned out that I was not a pedlar, but a 
literary man, who drew landscapes and was going to write 
a book, he changed his manner of thinking as to my recep- 
tion (for I fear they respect persons even in a Trappist 
monastery), and told me I must be sure to ask for the 
Father Prior, and state my case to him in full. On second 
thoughts he determined to go down with me himself; he 
thought he could manage for me better. Might he say that 
I was a geographer ? 

No; I thought, in the interests of truth, he positively 
might not. 

"Yerj well, then" (with disappointment), "an author.'' 

It appeared he had been in a seminary with six young 
Irishmen, all priests long since, who had received news- 
papers and kept him informed of the state of ecclesiastical 
affairs in England. And he asked me eagerly after Dr. 
Pusey,^ for whose conversion the good man had continued 
ever since to pray night and morning. 

"I thought he was very near the truth,'' he said ; "and he 
will reach it yet ; there is so much virtue in prayer." 

He must be a stiff ungodly Protestant who can take any- 

1 Dr. Piiscif. An English theologian of the nineteenth century. 
About the year 1833 he was associated with John Henry Newman 
and John Keble in the Tractarian movement, a reaction in the Church 
of England toward Catholicism. It was expected for a time that 
Pusey, like Newman, would go over to the Roman Church. 



OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS 187 

thing but pleasure in tliis kind and hopeful story. While 
he was thus near the subject, the good father asked me if 
I were a Christian; and when he found I was not, or not 
after his way, he glossed it over with great good-will. 

The road which we were following, and which this stal- 
wart father had made with his own two hands within the 
space of a year, came to a corner, and showed us some white 
buildings a little further on beyond the wood. At the same 
time, the bell once more sounded abroad. We were hard 
upon the monastery. Father Apollinaris (for that was my 
companion's name) stopped me. 

"1 must not speak to you down there," he said. "Ask 
for the Brother Porter, and all will be well. But try to 
see me as you go out again through the wood, where I may 
speak to you. I am charmed to have made your acquaint- 
ance." 

And then suddenly raising his arms, flapping his fingers, 
and crying out twice, "I must not speak, I must not speak !" 
he ran away in front of me, and disappeared into the mon- 
astery-door. 

I own this somewhat ghastly eccentricity went a good 
way to revive my terrors. But where one was so good and 
simple, why should not all be alike? I took heart of grace, 
and went forward to the gate as fast as Modestine, who 
seemed to have a disaffection for monasteries, would permit. 
It was the first door, in my acquaintance of her, which she 
had not shown an indecent haste to enter. I summoned the 
place in form, though with a quaking heart. Father Mi- 
chael, the Father Hospitaller/ and a pair of brov/n-robed 
brothers came to the gate and spoke with me awhile. I 
think my sack was the great attraction; it had already 
beguiled the heart of poor Apollinaris, who had charged 
me on my life to show it to the Father Prior. But whether 
it was my address, or the sack, or the idea speedily pub- 

1 Father Hospitaller. The head of a charitable brotherhood. 



188 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

lished among that part of tlie Ijrotherhood who attend on 
strangers that I was not a pedlar after all, I found no diffi- 
culty as to my reception. Modestine was led away by a 
layman to the stables, and I and my pack were received into 
our Lady of the Snows. 



THE MONKS 



Father Michael, a pleasant, fresh-faced, smiling man, 
perhaps of thirty-five, took me to the pantr}^, and gave me a 
glass of liqueur to stay me until dinner. We had some 
talk, or rather I should say he listened to my prattle indul- 
gently enough, but with an abstracted air, like a spirit 
with a thing of clay. And truly when I remember that I 
descanted principally on my appetite, and that it must 
have been by that time more than eighteen hours since 
Father Michael had so much as broken bread, I can well 
understand that he would find an earthly savor in my con- 
versation. But his manner, though superior, was exquisitely 
gracious ; and I find I have a lurking curiosity as to Father 
Michael's past. 

The whet administered, I was left alone for a little in 
the monastery garden. This is no more than the main 
court, laid out in sandy paths and beds of party-colored 
dahlias, and with a fountain and a black statue of the Vir- 
gin in the center. The buildings stand around it four- 
square, bleak, as yet unseasoned by the years and weather, 
and with no other features than a belfry and a pair of slated 
gables. Brothers in white, brothers in brown, passed si- 
lently along the sanded alleys; and when I first came out, 
three hooded monks were kneeling on the terrace at their 
prayers. A naked hill commands the monastery upon one 
side, and the wood commands it on the other. It lies 
exposed to wind ; the snow falls off and on from October to 



THE MOXKS 189 

May, and sometimes lies six weeks on end; but if they 
stood in Eden, with a climate like heaven's, the buildings 
themselves would offer the same wintry and cheerless as- 
pect; and for my part, on this wild September day, before 
I was called to dinner, I felt chilly in and out. 

When I had eaten well and heartily, Brother Ambrose, a 
hearty conversable Frenchman (for all those who wait on 
strangers have the liberty to speak), led me to a little room 
in that part of the building which is set apart for MM. Jcs 
rctraitants} It was clean and whitewashed, and furnished 
with strict necessaries, a crucifix, a bust of the late Pope, 
the Imitation- in French, a book of religious meditations, 
and the life of Elizabeth Seton, evangelist, it Avould appear, 
of North America and of New England in particular. As 
far as my experience goes, there is a fair field for some more 
evangelization in these quarters ; Ijut think of Cotton 
IMather !" I should like to give him a reading of this little 
work in heaven, where I hope he dwells: but perhaps he 
knows all that already, and much more; and perhaps he 
and Mrs. Seton are the dearest friends, and gladly unite 
their voices in the everlasting psalm. Over the table, to 
conclude the inventory of the room, hung a set of regula- 
tions for MM. les retraitants: what services they should 
attend, when they were to tell their beads or meditate, and 
when they were to rise and go to rest. At the foot was a 
notable N. B. : ''Le temps lihre est employe a rexmnen dc 
conscience, a la confession, a faire de bonnes resolutions/' 
etc.* To make good resolutions, indeed ! You might talk 
as fruitfully of making the hair grow on your head. 

1 MM. les retraitants. Those who wish to withdraw from the world 
for a time in order to devote themselves to meditation and prayer. 

^Imitation. De Imitatione Christl (On the Imitation of Christ) of 
Thomas a Kempis. 

"Cotton Mather. A Congregational clergyman (1663-1728), for 
years minister of the North Church in Boston. He was one of the 
most devout and narrow of the early New England divines. 

*"Le temps," etc. "The unoccupied time is to be employed in nn 
examination of the conscience, in confession, and in making good reso- 
lutions." 



190 TEAA^ELS WITH A DONKEY 

I had scarce explored n^y niche when Brotlier Ambrose 
returned. An English boarder, it appeared, would like to 
speak with me. I professed my willingness, and the friar 
ushered in a fresh, young little Irishman of fifty, a deacon 
of the Church, arrayed in strict canonicals, and wearing on 
his head what, in default of knowledge, I can only call the 
ecclesiastical shako. He had lived seven years in retreat at 
a convent of nuns in Belgium, and now five at our Lady of 
the Snows ; he never saw an English newspaper ; he spoke 
French imperfectly, and had he spoken it like a native, 
there was not much chance of conversation where he dwelt. 
With this, he was a man eminently sociable, greedy of 
news, and simple-minded like a child. If I was pleased to 
have a guide about the monastery, he was no less delighted 
to see an English face and hear an English tongue. 

He showed me his own room, where he passed his time 
among breviaries,^ Hebrew Bil)les, and the \Yaverley novels. 
Thence he led me to the cloisters, into the chapter-house, 
through the vestry, where the brothers' gowns and broad 
straw hats were hanging up, each with his religious name 
upon a board, — names full of legendary suavity and inter- 
est, such as Basil, Hilarion, Eaphael, or Pacifique; into 
the library, where were all the works of Veuillot- and Cha- 
teaubriand,^ and the Odes et Ballades, if you please and 
even Moliere, to say nothing of innumerable fathers and a 
great variety of local and general historians. Thence my 
good Irishman took me round the workshops, where broth- 
ers bake bread, and make cartwheels, and take photographs ; 

1 hreviaries. In the Roman Catholic ritual, a breviary is a book 
eontaininc: the daily offices and prayers. 

2 Veuillot. A French journalist and author, who strongly opposed 
legislation hostile to the Iloman Catholic Church. 

^^ Ghateauhriand. A French author and statesman, who was con- 
verted from infidelity to the Catholic faith. He subsequentlv published 
a eulogy of Christianity. The fathers were the early teachers of the 
Christian church, whose writings are the main source of early church 
history and doctrine. 



THE MONKS 191 

where one superintends a collection of curiosities, and 
another a gallery of rabbits. For in a Trappist monastery 
each monk has an occupation of his own choice, apart from 
his religious duties and the general labors of the house. 
Each must sing in the choir, if he has a voice and ear, and 
join in the haymaking if he has a hand to stir ; but in his 
private hours, although he must be occupied, he ma}^ be 
occupied on wliat he likes. Thus I was told that one 
brother was engaged with literature; while Father Apolli- 
naris busies himself in making roads, and the Abbot em- 
ploys himself in binding books. It is not so long since 
this Abbot was consecrated, by the way ; and on that occa- 
sion, by a special grace, his mother was permitted to enter 
the chapel and witness the ceremony of consecration. A 
proud day for her to have a son a mitred abbot ; it makes 
you glad to think they let her in. 

" In all these journeyings to and fro, many silent fathers 
and brethren fell in our way. Usually they paid no more 
regard to our passage than if we had been a cloud; but 
sometimes the good deacon had a permission to ask of 
them, and it was granted by a peculiar movement of the 
hands, almost like that of a dog's paws in swimming, or 
refused by the usual negative signs, and in either case with 
lowered eyelids and a certain air of contrition, as of a man 
Mdio was steering very close to evil. 

The monks, by special grace of their Abbot, were still 
taking two meals a day; but it was already time for their 
grand fast, which begins somewhere in September and lasts 
till Easter, and during which they eat but once in the 
twenty-four hours, and that at two in the afternoon, twelve 
hours after they have begun the toil and vigil of the day. 
Their meals are scanty, but even of these they eat sparingly ; 
and though each is allowed a small carafe of wine, many 
refrain from this indulgence. Without doubt, the most of 



192 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

mankind grossly overeat themselves; our meals serve not 
only for support, but as a hearty and natural diversion 
from the labor of life. Although excess may be hurtful, I 
should have thought this Trappist regimen defective. And 
I am astonished, as I look back, at the freshness of face and 
cheerfulness of manner of all whom I beheld. A happier 
nor a healthier company I should scarce suppose that I 
have ever seen. As a matter of fact, on this bleak upland, 
and with the incessant occupation of the monks, life is of 
an uncertain tenure, and death no infrequent visitor, at our 
Lady of the Snows. This, at least, was what was told me. 
But if they die easily, they must live healthily in the mean- 
time, for they seemed all firm of flesh and high in color; 
and tlie only morbid sign that I could observe, an unusual 
brilliancy of eye, was one that served rather to increase the 
general impression of vivacity and strength. 

Those with whom I spoke were singularly sweet-tem- 
pered, with what I can only call a holy cheerfulness in air 
and conversation. There is a note, in the direction to vis- 
itors, telling them not to be offended at the curt speech of 
those who wait upon them, since it is proper to monks to 
speak little. The note might have been spared; to a man 
the hospitallers were all brimming with innocent talk, and, 
in my experience of the monastery, it w^as easier to begin 
than to break off a conversation. With the exception of 
Father Michael, who was a man of tlie world, they showed 
themselves full of kind and healthy interest in all sorts of 
subjects — in politics, in voyages, in my sleeping-sack — and 
not without a certain pleasure in the sound of their own 
voices. 

As for those who are restricted to silence, I can only 
wonder how they bear their solemn and cheerless isolation. 
And yet, apart from any view of mortification, I can see a 
certain policy, not only in the exclusion of women, but in 
this vow of silence. I have had some experience of lay 



THE MONKS 193 

phalansteries/ of an artistic, not to sa}^ a bacchanalian, 
character ; and seen more than one association easily formed 
and yet more easily dispersed. With a Cistercian rule, per- 
haps they might have lasted longer. In the neighborhood 
of women it is but a touch-and-go association that can be 
formed among defenceless men; the stronger electricity is 
sure to triumph; the dreams of boyhood, the schemes of 
youth, are abandoned after an interview of ten minutes, 
and the arts and sciences, and professional male jollity, 
deserted at once for two sweet eyes and a caressing accent. 
And next after this, the tongue is the great divider. 

I am almost ashamed to pursue this worldly criticism 
of a religious rule; but there is yet another point in which 
the Trappist order appeals to me as a model of wisdom. 
By two in the morning the clapper goes upon the bell, and 
so on, hour by hour, and sometimes quarter by quarter, 
till eight, the hour of rest; so infinitesimally is the day 
divided amony different occupations. The man who keeps 
rabbits, for example, hurries from his hutches to the 
chapel, the chapter-room, or the refectory, all day long: 
every hour he has an office to sing, a duty to perform; 
from two, when he rises in the dark, till eight, when he 
returns to receive the comfortable gift of sleep, he is upon 
his feet and occupied with manifold and changing busi- 
ness. I know many persons, worth several thousands in 
the year, who are not so fortunate in the disposal of their 
lives. Into how many houses would not the note of the 
monastery-bell, dividing the day into manageable portions, 
bring peace of nrind and healthful activity of body? We 
speak of hardships, but the true hardship is to be a dull 
fool, and permitted to mismanage life in our own dull 
and foolish manner. 

1 laif phalansteries. Specifically, phalansteries were dwellings which, 
according to the reorganization of society proposed by the French 
socialist, Fourrier, separate industrial groups were to occupy in com- 
mon. Here lay phalansteries moans informal or unprofessional organi- 
zations of people living in common — apparently the art communities 
that Stevenson was accustomed to frequent. 



194 TEA \' ELS WITH A DONKEY 

From this point of view, we may perhaps better micler- 
stancl the monk's existence. A long novitiate, and every 
proof of constancy of mind and strength of ])ody is re- 
quired before admission to the order ; but I could not find 
that many were discouraged. In the photographer's studio, 
u'hicli figures so strangely among the outbuildings, my eye 
was attracted by the portrait of a 3^oung fellow in the uni- 
form of a private of foot. This was one of the novices, 
who came of the age for service, and marched and drilled 
and mounted guard for the proper time among the garri- 
son of Algiers. Here was a man who had surely seen l)oth 
sides of life before deciding; yet as soon as he was set free 
from service he returned to finish his novitiate. 

This austere rule entitles a man to heaven as by right. 
When the Trappist sickens, he quits not his habit; he lies 
in the bed of death as he has prayed and labored in his 
frugal and silent existence ; and when the Liberator comes, 
at the very moment, even before they have carried him in 
his robe to lie his little last in the chapel among continual 
chantings, joy-bells break forth, as if for a marriage, from 
the slated belfry, and proclaim throughout the neighbor- 
hood that another soul has gone to God. 

At night, under the conduct of my kind Irishman, I took 
my place in the gallery to hear compline and Salve Regina/ 
Avith which the Cistercians bi'ing every day to a conclusion. 
There were none of those circumstances which strike the 
Protestant as childish or as tawdry in the public offices of 
Rome. A stern simplicity, heightened by the romance of 
the surroundings, spoke directly to the heart. I recall the 
white-washed chapel, the hooded figures in the choir, the 
lights alternately occluded and revealed, the strong manly 
singing, the silence that ensued, the sight of cowled heads 

1 Compline and Salve Regina. Compline is the last service of 
common prayer for the day. Salve Rcfjina. so named from the first 
words, "Salve Regina miserecordiae" ("Hail, Queen of Compassion"), 
is a hymn to the Virgin. 



THE MONKS 195^ 

]30wed in prayer, and then the clear trenchant beating of 
the bell, breaking in to show that the last office was over 
and the hour of sleep had come; and when 1 remember, I 
am not surprised that I made my escape into the court with 
somewhat whirling fancies, and stood like a man bewild- 
ered in the windy starry night. 

But I was weary ; and when I had quieted my spirits 
with Elizabeth Seton's memoirs — a dull work — the cold 
and the raving of the wind among the pines — for my room 
was on that side of the monastery which adjoins the woods 
— disposed me readily to slumber. I was wakened at black 
midnight, as it seemed, though it was really two in the 
morning, by the first stroke upon the bell. All the brothers 
were then hurrying to the chapel ; the dead in life, at this 
untimely hour, were already beginning the uncomforted 
labors of their day. The dead in life — there was a chill re- 
flection. And the words of a French song came back into 
my memory, telling of the best of our mixed existence : — 

' Que t 'as de belles filles, 

Girofle ! 

Girofla ! 
Que t'as de belles filles, 
L' Amour les compteral' ^ 

And I blessed God that I was free to wander, free to hope, 
and free to love.- 

1 Que t'as, etc. 

'•What fino girls you have, 
Girofle ! 
Girofla ! 
What fine gii'ls you have ! 
Love will number them." 
"Girofle Girofla" is a nonsensical refrain. 

-And I hlessed God, etc. See also, in Underwoods, the poem, Our 
Lady of the t^noics. 

•And ye, O brethren, What if God, 
When from Heav'n's top he spies abroad, 
And sees on this tormented stage 
The noble war of mankind rage : 
What if his vivifying eye, 
O monks, should pass your corner by ? 
For still the Lord is Lord of might ; 
In deeds, in deeds, He takes delight." 



196 TEAVELS WITH A DONKEY 



THE BOARDERS 



But there was another side to n\y residence at our Lady of 
the Snows. At this late season there were not many 
l)oarders; and yet I was not alone in the public part of the 
monastery. This itself is hard by the gate, with a small 
dining-room on the ground-floor, and a whole corridor of 
cells similar to mine up-stairs. I have stupidly forgotten 
the board for a regular retraHant; but it was somewhere 
between three and five francs a day, and I think most 
probably the first. Chance visitors like mj^self might give 
what they chose as a free-Avill offering, but nothing was 
demanded. I may mention that when I was going away, 
Father Michael refused twenty francs as excessive. I ex- 
plained the reasoning which led me to offer him so mucii ; 
but even then, from a curious point of honor, he would not 
accept it with his own hand. "I have no right to refuse 
for the monastery," he explained, "but T should prefer if 
you would give it to one of the brothers." 

I had dined alone, because I arrived late; but at supper 
1 found two other guests. One was a country parish priest, 
who had walked over that morning from the seat of his 
cure near Mende to enjoy four days of solitude and prayer. 
He was a grenadier in person, with the hale color and cir- 
cular wrinkles of a peasant ; and as he complained much of 
how lie had been impeded by his skirts upon the march, I 
have a vivid fancy portrait of him, striding along, upright, 
])ig-boned, with kilted cassock, through the bleak hills of 
Gevaudan. The other was a short, grizzling, thick-set 
man, from forty-five to fi^ty, dressed in tweed with a 
knitted spencer, and the red ribbon of a decoration^ in his 
buttonhole. This last was a hard person to classify. He 
was an old soldier, who had seen service and risen to the 

■> rcfl nh'bon, etc. A decoration is a badge of distincnisTiod service 
consistinc; of a cross, medal, etc., attached to a colored ribbon. The 
ribbon of the French Lesion of Flonor is red. 



THE BOARDERS I97 

rank of commandant; and he retained some of the brisk 
decisive manners of the camp. On the other hand, as soon 
as his resignation was accepted, he had come to our Lady 
of the Snows as a boarder, and, after a brief ex|>erience of 
its Avays, had decided to remain as a novice. Already the 
new life was beginning to modify his appearance; already 
he had acquired somewhat of the quiet and smiling air of 
the brethren; and he was as yet neither an officer nor a 
Trappist, but partook of the character of each. And cer- 
tainly here was a man in an interesting nick of life. Out 
of the noise of cannon and trumpets, he was in the act of 
passing into this still country bordering on the grave, 
where men sleep nightly in their grave-clothes, and, like 
phantoms, communicate by signs. 

At supper we talked politics. I make it my business, 
when I am in France, to preach political good-will and 
moderation, and to dwell on the example of Poland, mucli 
as some alarmists in England dwell on the example of 
Carthage.^ The priest and the Commandant assured me 
of their sympathy with all I said, and made a heavy sigh- 
ing over the bitterness of contemporary feeling. 

"Why, you cannot say anything to a man with which he 
does not absolutely agree,'' said I, "but he flies up at you 
in a temper." 

They both declared that such a state of things was 
antichristian. 

While w^e were thus agreeing, what should my tongue 
stumble upon but a word in praise of Gambetta's- mod- 

1 the example of Carthage. Internal strife weakened Carthas;e and 
precipitated the Third Punic War (B. C. 149-140), during which the 
Romans destroyed the city. 

- Gamhetta. A French statesman (1838-1882). When NapoI<-on III 
surrendered at Sedan, Gambetta, then a member of the Chamber of 
Deputies, declared him deposed. Gambetta was a member of the pro- 
visional government. When he was President of the Chamber of Depu- 
ties, in 1879. an Orleanist paper said of him : "The ministers are noth- 
ing ; the president of the republic is less than nothing. Gamb<'tta, as 
lias been wittily remarked, is the emperor of the republic. He is more 
than that ; he is the republic itself." 



198 TKAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

eration. The old soldier's countenance was instantly suf- 
fused with blood ; with the palms of his hands he beat the 
table like a naughty child. 

''Comment, monsieur?''^ he shouted. ''Comment? Gam- 
betta moderate? A\'ill you dare to justify these words?'' 

But the priest had not forgotten the tenor of our talk 
And suddenly, in the height of his fury, the old soldier 
found a warning look directed on his face ; the absurdity 
of his behavior was brought home to him in a flash; and 
the storm came to an abrupt end, without another word. 

It was only in the morning, over our coffee (Friday, 
September 27th), tliat this couple found out I was a here- 
tic. I suppose I had misled them by some admiring ex- 
pressions as to the monastic life around us; and it was' 
only by a point-blank question that the truth came out. 
I had been tolerantly used, botli by simple Father Apol- 
linaris and astute Fatlier Michael; and the good Irish 
deacon, when he heard of my religious weakness, had only 
patted me upon the shoulder and said, "You must be a 
Catholic and come to heaven." But I was now among a 
different sect of orthodox. These two men were bitter and 
upright and narrow, like the worst of Scotsmen, and in- 
deed, upon my heart, I fancy they were worse. The 
priest snorted aloud like a battle-horse. 

''Et voiis pretendez mourir dans cette espece de croy- 
ance T"^ he demanded ; and there is no typ3 used by mortal 
printers large enough to qualify his accent. 

I humbly indicated that I had no design of changing. 

But he could not aAvay with such a monstrous attitude. 
"No, no," he cried ; "you must change. You have come 
here, God has led you here, and you must embrace the op- 
portunity." 

I made a slip in policy; I appealed to the family affee- 

'^''Vouxmcni, monsieur?" "What, sir?" 

- "A7 roHs," etc. '"And you mean to die in that sort of faith?" 



THE BOARDERS 199 

tions, though I was speaking to a priest and a soldier, two 
classes of men circumstantially divorced from the kind and 
homely ties of life. 

'^Your father and mother?" cried the priest. "Very 
well ; you will convert them in their turn when you go 
home." 

I think I see my father's face ! I Avould rather tackle 
the Ga^tulian lion^ in his den tlian emhark on such an en- 
terprise against the family theologian. 

But now the hunt was up; priest and soldier were in 
full cry for my conversion; and the Work of the Propa-' 
gation of the Faith, for which the people of Cheylard suh- 
scrihed forty-eight francs ten centimes during 1877, was 
heing gallantly pursued against myself. It was an odd 
but most effective proselytizing. They never sought to con- 
vince me in argument, where I might have attempted some 
defence; but took it for granted that I was both ashamed 
and terrified at my position, and urged me solely on the 
point of time. Now, they sai-d, when God had led me to 
our Lady of the Snows, now was the appointed hour. 

"Do not be withheld !)y false shame," observed the priest, 
for my encouragement. 

For one who feels very similarly to all sects of religion, 
and who has never been able, even for a moment, to weigh 
seriously the merit of this or that creed on the eternal side 
of things, however .much he may see to praise or blame 
upon the secular and temporal side, the situation thus 
created was both unfair and painful. I committed my 
second fault in tact, and tried to plead tliat it was all the 
same thing in the end, and we Avere all drawing near by 
different sides to the same kind and undiscriminating 
Friend and Father. That, as it seems to lay-spirits, would 
be the only gospel worthy of the name. But different men 

'^ GaeMiaii lion. In ancient geography, Cjaetiilia was a region In 
northern Africa. 



200 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

think differently ; and this revolutionary aspiration brought 
down the priest with all the terrors of the law. He 
launched into harrowing details of hell. The damned, he 
said — on the authority of a little book wdiich he had read 
not a week before, and which, to add conviction to con- 
viction, he had fully intended to bring along with him 
in his pocket — were to occupy the same attitude through 
all eternity in tlie midst of dismal tortures. And as 
he thus expatiated, he grew in nobility of aspect with his 
enthusiasm. 

As a result the pair concluded that I should seek out tlie 
Prior, since the Abbot was from home, and lay my case 
immediately before him. 

''C'est mon conseil comiiie aiicleii miliiaire/' observed the 
Commandant; ''et celui de inonsieiir comme pretre."^ 

"Oui/' added the cure, sententiously nodding; ''comme 
ancien inilitaire — et comme pretre/' 

At this moment, whilst I was somewhat embarrassed 
how to answer, in came one of the monks, a little brown 
fellow, as lively as a grig, and with an Italian accent, who 
threw himself at once into the contention, but in a milder 
and more persuasive vein, as befitted one of these pleasant 
brethren. Look at him, he said. The rule was very hard ; 
he would have dearly liked to stay in his own country, 
Italy — it was well known how beautiful it was, the beauti- 
ful Italy; but then there were no Trappists in Italy; and 
he had a soul to save ; and here he was. 

I am afraid I must be at l)ottom, what a cheerful Indian 
critic has dubbed me, ''a faddling hedonist;" for this de- 
scription of the brother's motives gave me somewhat of a 
shock. I should have preferred to think he had chosen the 
life for its own sake, and not for ulterior purposes; and 
this shows how profoundly I was out of sympathy witli 

"^"G'est mon conseil," etc. "It is my advice as an old soldier and 
that of this gentleman as a priest." 



THE BOAEDEES 201 

these good Trappists, even when I was doing my best to 
sympathize. But to tlie cure the argument seemed de- 
cisive. 

"Hear that!'' he cried. '^'And I have seen a marquis 
liere, a marquis, a marquis"' — he repeated the holy Avord 
tliree times over — "and other persons high in society; and 
generals. And here, at your side, is this gentleman, who 
has been so many years in armies — decorated, an old war- 
rior. And here he is, ready to dedicate himself to God." 

I was by this time so thoroughly endjarrassed that I 
pleaded cold feet, and made my escape from the apartment. 
It was a furious windy morning, with a sky much cleared, 
and long and potent intervals of sunshine; and I wandered 
until dinner in the wild country towards the east, sorely 
staggered and beaten upon by the gale, but rewarded with 
some striking views. 

At dinner the Work of the Propagation of the Faith 
w^as recommenced, and on this occasion still more distaste- 
fully to me. The priest asked me many questions as to tlie 
contemptible faith of my fathers, and received my replies 
with a kind of ecclesiastical titter. 

"Your sect," he said once; "for I think you will admit 
it w^ould be doing it too much honor to call it a religion." 

"As you please, monsieur," said I. ''La parole est a 
vous/'^ 

At length I grew -annoyed beyond endurance; and al- 
though he was on his own ground, and, what is more to 
the purpose, an old man, and so holding a claim upon my 
toleration, I could not avoid a protest against this uncivil 
usage. He was sadly discountenanced. 

"I assure you," he said, "I have no inclination to laugh 
in my heart. I have no other feeling but interest in your 
soul." 

'^'^La parole est a tons." "I'lie word is your own; the word is of 
yoiu- own choosing."' 



202 TEAYELS V.'ITII A DONKEY 

And there ended my conversion. Honest man ! lie was 
no dangerous deceiver; but a country parson, full of zeal 
and faith. Long nuiy he tread Gevaudan with his kilted 
skirts — a man strong to walk and strong to comfort his 
parishioners in death ! I dare say he would beat bravely 
through a snow-storm where his duty called him ; and it is 
not always the most faithful believer who makes the cun- 
ningest apostle. 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 
(Continued.) 

* * The hed ivas made, the room was fit, 
By punctual eve the stars were lit; 
The air teas sweet ,jthe water ran; 
No need icas there for maid or man, 
When we put up, my ass and I, 
At God's green caravanserai." 



—01(1 Plav 



ACROSS THE GOULET 



The wind fell during dinner, and the sky remained clear ; 
so it was under better auspices that I loaded Modestine 
before the monastery-gate. My Irish friend accompanied 
me so far on the way. As we came through the wood, 
there was Pere Apollinaire hauling his barrow; and he 
too quitted his labors to go with me for perhaps a hundred 
yards, holding my hand between both of his in front of 
him. I parted first from one and then from the other with 
unfeigned regret, but yet with the glee of the traveler who 
shakes oif the dust of one stage before hurrying forth upon 
another. Then Modestine and I mounted the course of 
the Allier, which here led us back into Gevaudan towards 
its sources in the forest of Mercoire. It was but an in- 
considerable burn before we left its guidance. Thence, 



UPPEK GEVAUDAX 203 

over a hill, our way lay through a naked })latcau, initil we 
reached Chasserades at sundown. 

The company in the inn-kitchen that iiight were all men 
employed in survey for one of the projected railways. The}^ 
were intelligent and conversable, and we decided the fu- 
ture of France over hot wine, until the state of the clock 
frightened us to rest. There were four beds in the little 
up-stairs room ; and we slept six. But I had a bed to my- 
self, and persuaded them to leave the window open. 

''He, honrgeois; il est cinq lieures!"'^ was the cry that 
wakened me in the morning (Saturday, September 28th). 
The room was full of a transparent darkness, which dimly 
showed me the other three beds and the five different 
nightcaps on the pillows. But out of the window the dawn 
was growing ruddy in a long belt over the hill-tops, and 
day was about to flood the plateau. The hour was inspirit- 
ing; and there seemed a promise of calm weather, which 
was perfectly fulfilled. I was soon under way with Modes- 
tine. The road lay for a while over the plateau, and then 
descended through a precipitous village into the valley of 
the Chassezac. This stream ran among green meadows, 
well hidden from the world by its steep banks ; the broom 
was in flower, and here and there was a hamlet sending 
up its smoke. 

At last the path crossed the Chassezac upon a bridge, 
and, forsaking this, deep hollovr, set itself to cross the 
mountain of La Goulet. It wound up through Lestampes 
by upland fields and woods of beech and birch, and with 
every corner brought me into an acquaintance with some 
new interest. Even in the gully of the Chassezac my ear 
had been struck by a noise like that of a great bass bell 
ringing at the distance of many miles; but this, as I con- 
tinued to mount and draw nearer to it, seemed to change 

-i "He. 'bourgeois; U est einq heures !" "Hey, master: it's five 
•'clock 1" 



204 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

in character, and I found at length that it came from some 
one leading flocks afield to the note of a rural horn. The 
narrow street of Lestampes stood full of sheep, from wall 
to wall — black sheep and Avhite, bleating like the birds 
in spring, and each one accompanying himself upon the 
sheep-bell round his neck. It made a pathetic concert, all 
in treble. A little higher, and I passed a pair of men in a 
tree with pruning-hooks, and one of them was singing the 
music of a hourree} Still further, and when I was al- 
ready threading the birches, the crowing of cocks came 
cheerfully up to my ears, and along with that the voice of 
a flute discoursing a deliberate and plaintive air from one 
of the upland villages. I pictured to myself some grizzled, 
apple-cheeked, country schoolmaster fluting in his bit of a 
garden in the clear autumn sunshine. All these beautiful 
and interesting sounds filled my heart with an unwonted 
expectation; and it appeared to me that, once past this 
range which I was mounting, I should descend into the 
garden of the world. Nor was I deceived, for I was now 
done with rains and winds and a bleak country. Tlie first 
part of my journey ended here; and this was like an 
induction of sweet sounds into the other and more 
beautiful. 

There are other degrees of feyness,- as of punishment, 
besides the capital ; and I was now led by my good spirits 
into an adventure which I relate in the interest of future 
donkey-drivers. The road zigzagged so widely on the hill- 
side that I chose a short cut l)y map and compass, and 
struck through the dwarf woods to catch the road again 
upon a higher level. It was my one serious conflict witli 
Modestine. She would none of my short cut; she turned 
in my .face, she backed, she reared ; she, ^vhom I had hither- 

1 hoiirne. A woodcutter's danco or sons. 

2 feyness. In Scotland one is said to be "fey" when he is unlike him- 
self, as a person is seen to be in the hour of threatened death or 
disaster. 



A NIGHT A>]OXG THE PINES 205 

to imagined to l)e diiiiil), actually braved with a loud lioaise 
flourish, like a cock crowing for the dawn. 1 plied the 
goad with one hand; with the other, so steep was the 
ascent, I had to hold on the pack-saddle. Half a dozen 
times she was nearly over backAvards on the top of me; 
half a dozen times, from sheer weariness of spirit, I was 
nearly giving it up, and leading her down again to fol- 
low the road. But I took the thing as a wager, and fought 
it through. I was surprised, as I went on my way again, 
by what appeared to be chill rain-drops falling on my hand, 
and more than once looked up in wonder at the cloudless 
sky. But it was only sweat which came dropping from 
my brow. 

Over the summit of the Goulet there was no marked 
road — only upright stones posted from space to space to 
guide the drovers. The turf underfoot was springy and 
well scented. I had no company but a lark or two, and 
met but one bullock-cart between Lestampes and Bley- 
mard. In front of me I saw a shallow valley, and beyond 
tliat the range of the Lozere, sparsely wooded and well 
enough modelled in the flanks, but straight and dull in out- 
line. There was scarce a sign of culture; only about Bley- 
mard, the white high-road from Yillefort to Mende trav- 
ersed a range of meadows, set with spiry poplars, and 
sounding from side to side with the bells of flocks and 
herds. 



A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES 

From Bleymard after dinner, although it was already late, 
I set out to scale a portion of the Lozere. An ill-marked 
stony drove-road guided me forward; and I 'met nearly 
half a dozen bullock-carts descending from the woods, each 
laden with a whole pine-tree for the winter's firing. At 
the top of the woods, which do not climb very high upon 



206 TRAVELS WITH A DOXKEY 

tins cold ridge, 1 stiiick lel'twaid ])y a path aiiiung tlio 
pines, until I hit on a dell of green turf, where a streamlet 
made a little spout over some stones to serve me for a 
water-tap. "In a more sacred or sequestered bower — nor 
nymph nor faunus haunted.'^ The trees were not old, but 
they grew thickly round the glade: there was no outlook, 
except northeastward upon distant hill-tops, or straight 
upward to the sky; and the encampment felt secure and 
private like a room. By the time I had made my arrange- 
ments and fed Modestine, the day was already beginning to 
decline. I buckled myself to the knees into my sack and 
made a hearty meal; and as soon as the sun went down, I 
pulled my cap over my eyes and fell asleep. 

Night is a dead monotonous period under a roof; but in 
the open world it passes lightly, Avith its stars and dews 
and perfumes, and the hours are marked by changes in the 
face of Nature. What seems a kind of temporal death to 
people choked between walls and curtains, is only a light 
and living slumber to the man who sleeps afield. All night 
long he can hear Nature breathing deeply and freely; even 
as she takes her rest she turns and smiles; and there is 
one stirring hour unknown to those who dwell in houses, 
when a wakeful influence goes abroad over the sleeping 
hemisphere, and all the outdoor world are on their feet. 
It is then that the cock first crows, not this time to an- 
nounce the dawn, but like a cheerful watchman speeding 
the course of night. Cattle awake on the meadows; sheep 
break their fast on dewy hillsides, and change to a new 
lair among the ferns; and houseless men, wdio have lain 
down with the fowls, open their dim eyes and behold the 
beauty of the night. 

At what inaudible summons, at what gentle touch of 
Nature, are all these sleepers thus recalled in the -same 
hour to life? Do the stars rain down an influence, or do 
^ve share some thrill of mother earth below our resting 



A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES 207 

bodies? Even shepherds and old conntry-folk, who are 
the deepest read in these arcana^ have not a guess as to the 
means or purpose of this nightl}' resurrection. Towards 
two in the morning they declare the thing takes place; 
and neither know nor inquire further. And at least it is a 
pleasant incident. AVe are disturbed in our slumber only, 
like the luxurious Montaigne, "that we may the better and 
more sensibly relish it." We have a moment to look upon 
the stars, and there is a special pleasure for some minds 
in the reflection that we share the impulse with all out- 
door creatures in our neighborhood, that we have escaped 
out of the Bastille of civilization,^ and are become, for 
the time being, a mere kindly animal and a sheep of Na- 
ture's flock. 

When that hour came to me among the pines, I wakened 
thirsty. My tin was standing by me half full of water. 
I emptied it at a draught; and feeling broad awake after 
this internal cold aspersion, sat upright to make a cigar- 
ette. The stars were clear, colored, and jewel-like, but not 
frosty. A faint silvery vapor stood for the Milky Way. 
All around me the black fir-points stood upright and stock- 
still. By the whiteness of the pack-saddle, I could see 
Modestine walking round and round at the length of her 
tether; I could hear her steadily munching at the sward; 
Ijut there was not another sound, save the indescribable 
quiet talk of the runnel over the stones. I lay lazily 
smoking and studying the color of the sky, as we call the 
\oid of space, from where it showed a reddish gray behind 
the pines to where it showed a glossy blue-black between 
the stars. As if to be more like a pedlar, I w^ear a silver 
ring. This I could see faintly shining as I raised or low- 
ered the cigarette ; and at each whiff the inside of my hand 



^BasiiUe of civUizaiion. The BastiUe was a state prison in Paris 
noted i'oi' the terrors it inspired. It fell before the attack of a mob 
in the beginning of the French Kevolntion. 



208 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY~ 

Avas illuniinatt'd, and became for a second the highest light 
in the landscape. 

A faint wind, more like a moving coolness than a stream 
of air, passed down the glade from time to time; so that 
even in my great chamber the air was being renewed all 
night long. I thought with horror of the inn at Chas- 
serades and the congregated nightcaps; with horror of the 
nocturnal prowesses of clerks and students, of hot theatres 
and pass-keys and close rooms. I have not often enjoyed 
a more serene possession of myself, nor felt more inde- 
pendent of material aids. The outer world, from which 
we cower into our houses, seemed after all a gentle habita- 
ble place; and night after night a man's bed, it seemed, 
w^as laid and waiting for him in the fields, where God 
keeps an open house. I thought I had rediscovered one 
of those truths which are revealed to savages and hid from 
political economists: at the least, I had discovered a new 
pleasure for myself. And yet even while I was exulting 
in my solitude I became aware of a strange lack. I wished 
a companion to lie near me in the starlight, silent and not 
moving, but ever within touch. For there is a fellowship 
more quiet even than solitude, and which, rightly under- 
stood, is solitude made perfect. And to live out of doors 
with the woman a man loves is of all lives the most com- 
plete and free. 

As I thus lay between content and longing, a faint noise 
stole towards me through the pines. I thought, at first, 
it was crowing of cocks or the barking of dogs at some very 
distant farm ; but steadily and gradually it took articulate 
shape in my ears, until I became aware that a passenger 
was going by upon the high-road in the- valley, and sing- 
ing loudly as he went. There was more of good-will than 
grace in his performance ; but he trolled with ample lungs ; 
and the sound of his voice took hold upon the hillside and 
set the air shakins: in the leafy glens. I have heard people 



A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES 209 

passing by night in sleeping cities; some of tliem sang; 
one, 1 remember, played loudly on the bagpipes. I have 
heard the rattle of a cart or carriage spring np suddenly 
after hours of stillness, and pass, for some minutes, within 
the range of my hearing as I lay abed. There is a romance 
about all who are abroad in the black hours, and with 
something of a thrill we try to guess their business. But 
here the romance was double: first, this glad passenger, 
lit internally Avith wine, who sent up his voice in music 
through the night ; and then I, on the other hand, buckled 
into my sack, and smoking alone- in the pine-woods be- 
tween four and five thousand feet towards the stars. 

When I awoke again (Sunda}^, 29th September), many 
of the stars had disappeared ; only the stronger companions 
of the night still burned visibly overhead ; and away to- 
wards the east I saw a faint haze of light upon the horizon 
such as had been the Milky Way when 1 was last awake. 
Day was at hand. I lit my lantern, and Ijy its glow-worm 
light put on my boots and gaiters; then I broke up some 
bread for Modestine, filled my can at the water-tap, and lit 
my spirit-lamp to boil nwself some chocolate. The blue 
darkness lay long in the glade where 1 had so sweetly 
slumbered ; but soon there was a broad streak of orange 
melting into gold along the mountain-tops of Vivarais. 
A solemn glee possessed my mind at this gradual and 
lovely coming in of day. I heard the runnel with delight;, 
I looked round me for something beautiful and unexpected ; 
but the still black pine-treei?, the hollow glade, the munch- 
ing ass, remained unchanged in figure. Nothing had al- 
tered but the light, and that, indeed, shed over all a spirit 
of life and of breathing peace, and moved me to a strange 
exhilaration. 

I drank my water chocolate, which was hot if it was not 
ricli, and strolled here and there, and up and down about 
the glade. While I was thus delaying, a gush of steady 



210 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

wind, as long as a heavy sigh, poured direct out of the 
quarter of the morning. It was cold, and set me sneezing. 
The trees near at hand tossed their black plumes in its 
passage; and I could see the thin distant spires of pine 
along the edge of the hill rock slightly to and fro against 
the golden east. Ten minutes after, the sunlight spread 
at a gallop along the hillside, scattering shadows and 
sparkles, and the day had come completely. 

I hastened to prepare my pack, and tackle the steep 
ascent that lay before me; but I had something on my 
mind. It was only a fancy; yet a fancy will sometimes 
be importunate. I had been most hospitably received and 
punctually served in my green caravanserai. The room was 
airy, the water excellent, and the dawn had called me to 
a moment. I say nothing of the tapestries or the inimita- 
ble ceiling, nor yet of the view which I commanded from 
the windows; but I felt I was in some ont's debt for all 
this liberal entertainment. And so it pleased me, in a half- 
laughing way, to leave pieces of money on the turf as I 
went along, until I had left enough for my night's lodg- 
ing. I trust they did not fall to some rich and churlish 
drover. 

THE COUNTEY OF THE CAMISAEDS i 
"We traveled in the print of olden wars; 
Yet all the land was green; 
And love we found, and peace, 
Where fire and ivar had been. 
They pass and smile, the children of the sword — 
No wore the sword they wield; 
And 0, how deep the corn 
Along the battlefield!" 

— W. P. Bannatyne. 

1 The Camisards. The French Protestants of the Cevennes. who in 
1702 rose in rebeUion as^ainst religious persecution instigated by the 
clergy of the established Church. They received tlieir name from 
the blouse, or shirt (camisa). which their soldiers wore over then- 
armor as a means of identification in night forays. The first overt act 
of the war was the killing of the Abbe du Chayla, recounted by 
Stevenson in the next chapter. The final overthrow of the insurgents 
was accomplished only after 100,000 men were put into the field. 



THE COUNTRY OF THE CA^IISARDS 211 

ACROSS THE LOZERE 

The track that I had followed in the evening soon died out. 
and I continued to follow over a bald turf ascent a row of 
stone pillars, such as had conducted me across the Goulet. 
It was already warm. I tied my jacket on the pack, and 
walked in my knitted waistcoat. Modestine herself was 
in high spirits, and broke of her own accord, for the first 
time in my experience, into a jolting trot that sent the oats 
swashing in the pocket of my coat. The view, back upon 
the northern Gevaudan, extended with every step; scarce 
a tree, scarce a house, appeared upon the fields of wild hill 
that ran north, east, and west, all blue and gold in the haze 
and sunlight of the morning. A multitude of little birds 
kept sweeping and twittering about my path ; they perched 
on the stone pillars, they pecked and strutted on the turf, 
and I saw them circle in volleys in the blue air, and show, 
from time to time, translucent flickering wings between 
the sun and me. 

Almost from the first moment of my march, a faint large 
noise, like a distant surf, had filled my ears. Sometimes 
I was tempted to think it the voice of a neighboring water- 
fall, and sometimes a subjective result of the utter stillness 
of the hill. But as I continued to advance, the noise in- 
creased and became like the hissing of an enormous tea- 
urn, and at the same time breaths of cool air began to reach 
me from the direction of the summit. At length I under- 
stood. It was blowing stiffly from the south upon the other 
slope of the Lozere, and every step that I took I was draw- 
ing nearer to the wind. 

Although it had been long desired, it was quite unex- 
pectedly at last that my eyes rose above the summit. A 
step that seemed no way more decisive than many other 
steps that had preceded it — and, "like stout Cortez when, 
with eagle eyes, lie stared on the Pacific," I took poshes- 



212 TEAA^ELS WITH A DONKEY 

sioii, in my own name, of a new quarter of the world. For 
behold, instead of the gross turf rampart 1 had been 
mounting for so long, a view into the hazy air of heaven, 
and a land of intricate blue hills below my feet. 

The Lozere lies nearly east and west, cutting Gevaudan 
into two unequal parts; its highest point, this Pic de 
Finiels, on which I was then standing, rises upwards of 
-five thousand six hundred feet above the sea, and in clear 
weather commands a view over all lower Languedoc to the 
^Mediterranean Sea. I have spoken with people who either 
pretended or believed that they had seen, from the the Pic 
de Finiels, white ships sailing by Montpelier and Cette. Be- 
hind was the upland northern country through which my 
way had lain, peopled by a dull race, without wood, without 
much grandeur of hill-form, and famous in the past for 
little beside wolves. But in front of me, half-veiled in 
sunny haze, lay a new Gevaudan, rich, picturesque, illus- 
trious for stirring events. Speaking largely, I was in the 
(■evennes at Monastier, and during all my journey; but 
there is a strict and local sense in which only this confused 
and shaggy country at my feet has any title to the name, 
and in this sense the peasantry employ the word. These 
fire the Cevennes with an emphasis: the Cevennes of the 
C'evennes. In that undecipherable labyrinth of hills, a 
^var of bandits, a war of Avild beasts, raged for two years 
between the Grand Monarch^ with all his troops and mar- 
shals on the one hand, and a few thousand Protestant 
mountaineers upon the other. A hundred and eighty years 
ago, the Camisards held a station even on the Lozere, where 
1 stood ; they had an organization, arsenals, a military and 
religious hierarchy ; their affairs w^ere "the discourse of 
every coffee-house" in London; England sent fleets in 
their support; their leaders prophesied and murdered; 
with colors and drums, and the singing of old French 

1 flie Qrand Monarch. Louis XIV of France. 



THE COUNTEY OF THE CAMISARDS 213 

psalms, their bands sometimes affronted daj^light, marelied 
before walled cities, and dispersed the generals of the 
king; and sometimes at night, or in masquerade, pos- 
sessed themselves of strong castles, and avenged treachery 
upon their allies and cruelty upon their foes. There, a 
hundred and eighty years ago, was the chivalrous Eoland, 
"Count and Lord Roland, generalissimo of the Protestants 
in France," grave, silent, imperious, pock-marked ex-dra- 
goon, whom a lady followed in his wanderings out of love. 
There was Cavalier, a baker's apprentice with a genius for 
war, elected brigadier of Camisards at seventeen, to die at 
fifty-five the English governor of Jersey. There again was 
Castanet, a partisan leader in a voluminous peruke and 
with a taste for controversial divinity. Strange generals, 
who moved apart to take counsel with the God of Hosts, 
and fled or offered battle, set sentinels or slept in an un- 
guarded camp, as the Spirit whispered to their hearts I 
And there, to follow these and other leaders, was the rank 
and file of prophets and disciples, bold, patient, indefatiga- 
ble, hardy to run upon the mountains, cheering their rougli 
life with psalms, eager to fight, eager to pray, listening 
devoutly to the oracles of brainsick children, and mystically 
putting a grain of wheat among the pewter balls v.ith 
which they charged their muskets. 

I had traveled hitherto through a dull district, and in 
the track of nothing "more notable than the child-eating 
Beast of Gevaudan, the Napoleon Buonaparte of wolves. 
But now I was to go down into the scene of a romantic 
chapter — or, better, a romantic foot-note — in the history of 
the world. What was left of all this bygone dust and 
heroism? I was told that Protestantism still survived in- 
this head seat of Protestant resistance; so much the priest 
himself had told me in the monastery parlor. But I had 
yet to learn if it were a bare survival, or a lively and gen- 
erous tradition. Again, if in the northern Cevennes the 



214 TRAA^ELS WITH A DONKEY 

people are iiarroAv in religious judgments, and more filled 
with zeal than charity, what was I to look for in this land 
of persecution and reprisal — in a land where the tyranny 
of the Church produced the Camisard rebellion, and the 
terror of the Camisards threw the Catholic peasantry into 
legalized revolt upon the other side, so that Camisard 
and Florentin skulked for each other's lives among the 
mountains ? 

Just on the brow of the hill, where I paused to look 
before me, the series of stone pillars came abruptly to an 
end ; and only a little below, a sort of track appeared and 
began to go down a breakneck slope, turning like a cork- 
screw as it went. It led into a valley between falling hills^ 
stubbly with rocks like a reaped field, of corn, and floored 
further down with green meadows. I followed the track 
with precipitation ; the steepness of the slope, the contin- 
ual agile turning of the line of descent, and the old un- 
wearied hope of finding something new in a new country, 
all conspired to lend me wings. Yet a little lower and a 
stream began, collecting itself together out of many foun- 
tains, and soon making a glad noise among the hills. Some- 
times it would cross the track in a bit of waterfall, with a 
pool, in which Modestine refreshed her feet. 

The whole descent is like a dream to me, so rapidly was 
it accomplished. I had scarcely left the summit ere the 
valley had closed round my path, and the sun beat upon 
me, walking in a stagnant lowland atmosphere. The track 
became a road, and went up and down in easy undula- 
tions. I passed cabin after cabin, but all seemed deserted ; 
and I saw not a human creature, nor heard any sound ex- 
-cept that of the stream. I w^as, however, in a different 
country from the day before. The stony skeleton of the 
world was here vigorously displayed to sun and air. The 
slopes were steep and changeful. Oak-trees clung along 
the hills, well grown, wealthy in leaf, and touched by the 



THE COUNTEY OF THE CxiMISAEDS 215 

autumn \^'itli strong and luminous colors. Here and there 
another stream would fall in from the right or the left, 
down a gorge of snow-white and tumultuary boulders. The 
river in the bottom (for it was rapidly growing a river, 
collecting on all hands as it trotted on its way) here 
foamed awhile in desperate rapids, and there lay in pools 
of the most enchanting sea-green shot with watery browns. 
As far as I have gone, I have never seen a river of so 
changeful and delicate a hue ; crystal was not more clear, 
the meadows were not by half so green ; and at every pool 
I saw I felt a thrill of longing to be out of these hot, 
dusty, and material garments, and bathe my naked body 
in the mountain air and water. All the time as I went on 
I never forgot it was the Sabbath ; the stillness was a per- 
petual reminder; and I heard in spirit the church-bells 
clamoring all over Europe, and the psalms of a thousand 
churches. 

At length a human sound struck upon my ear — a cry 
strangel}^ modulated between pathos and derision ; and 
looking across the valley, I saw a little urchin sitting in 
a meadow, with his hands about his knees, and dwarfed to 
almost comical smallness by the distance. But the rogue 
had picked me out as I went down the road, from oak- 
wood on to oak-wood, driving Modestine; and he made 
me the compliments of the new country in this tremulous 
high-pitched salutation. And as all noises are lovely and 
natural at a sutficient distance, this also, coming through 
so much clean hill air and crossing all the green valley, 
sounded pleasant to my ear, and seemed a thing rustic, 
like the oaks or the river. 

A little after, the stream that I was following fell into 
the Tarn, at Pont de Montvert of bloody memory. 



^16 TEAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

PONT DE MONTYERT 

One of the first things I encountered in Pont de Montvert 
was, if I rememher rightl}^, the Protestant temple; but 
tills was bnt the type of other novelties. A subtle atmos- 
phere distinguishes a town in England from a town in 
France, or even in Scotland. At Carlisle you can see you 
are in one country; at Dumfries, thirty miles away, you 
are as sure that you are in the other. I should find it diffi- 
cult to tell in what particulars Pont de Montvert differed 
from Monastier or Langogne, or even Bleymard; but the 
difference existed, and spoke eloquently to the eyes. The 
place, with its houses, its lanes, its glaring river-bed, wore 
an indescribable air of the South. 

All was Sunday bustle in the streets and in the public- 
house, as all had been Sabbath peace among the mountains. 
There must have been near a score of us at dinner by- 
eleven before noon; and after I had eaten and drunken, 
and sat writing up my journal, I suppose as many more 
came dropping in one after another, or by twos and threes. 
In crossing the Lozere I had not only come among new 
natural features, but moved into the territory of a differ- 
ent race. These people, as they hurriedly despatched their 
viands in an intricate sword-play of knives, questioned and 
answered me with a degree of intelligence which excelled 
all that I had met, except among the railway folk at Chas-- 
serades. They had open telling faces, and were lively botli 
in speech and manner. They not only entered thoroughly 
into the spirit of my little trip, but more than one declared, 
if he were rich enough, he would like to set forth on such 
another. 

Even physically there was a pleasant cliange. I had not 
seen a pretty woman since I left Monastier, and there but 
one. Xow of the three who sat down with me to dinner, 
one was certainly not beautiful — a poor timid thing of 



PONT DE MOXTVERT 0^7 

forty, quite troubled at this roaring table d'hote, whom J 
squired and helped to wine, and pledged, and tried gener- 
ally to encourage, Avith quite a contrary effect; but the 
other two, both married, were both more handsome than 
the average of w^omen. And Clarisse? What shall I say 
of Clarisse ? She waited the table with a heavy placable 
nonchalance, like a performing cow; but her great gray 
eyes were steeped in amorous languor; her features, al- 
though flesh}^, were of an original and accurate design; 
her mouth had a curl; her nostril spoke of dainty pride; 
her cheek fell into strange and interesting lines. It was a 
face capable of strong emotion, and, with training, it 
offered the promise of delicate sentiment. It seemed piti- 
ful to see so good a model left to country admirers and a 
country way of thought. Beauty should at least have 
touched society ; then, in a moment, it throws off a weight 
that lay upon it, it becomes conscious of itself, it puts on 
an elegance, learns a gait and a carriage of the head, and, 
in a moment, patet dea} Before I left I assured Clarisse 
of my hearty admiration. She took it like milk, without 
embarrassment or wonder, merely looking at me steadily 
with her great eyes; and I own the result upon myself 
was some confusion. If Clarisse could read English, I 
should not dare to add that her figure was unworthy of her 
face. Hers was a case for stays ; but that may perhaps 
grow better as she gets up in years. 

Pont de Montvert, or Greenhill Bridge, as we might say 
at home, is a place memorable in the story of the Cam- 
isards. It was here that the war broke out; here that 
those southern Covenanters- slew their Archbishop Sharpe. 

'^ patet dea. I.atin ; the goddess stands reveaK^. 

- Sou them Covenanters. ^ In resistance to foims of worship and 
church government which Charles I and Arclihishop Laud sought to 
Impose upon them, the Scotch Presbyterians adopted a National Cov- 
enant, in which they bound themselves to resist aU changes in 
religion. James Sharp, Archbishop of St. Andrews, assisted in the 
restoration of Episcopacy in Scotland. He was murdered by the 
Covenanters. 



:218 TKAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

The persecution on the one hand^ the febrile enthusiasm 
on the other, are abnost equally clithcult to understand in 
these quiet modern days, and with our easy modern beliefs 
and disbeliefs. The Protestants were one and all beside 
their right minds with zeal and sorrow. They were all 
prophets and prophetesses. Children at the breast would 
exhort their parents to good works. "A child of fifteen 
months at Quissac spoke from its mother's arms, agitated 
and sobbing, distinctly and with a loud voice." Marshal 
Yillars^ has seen a town where all the women '^'seemed pos- 
sessed by the devil,'' and had trembling fits, and uttered 
prophecies publicly upon the streets. A prophetess of Viva- 
rais was hanged at Montpelier because blood flowed from 
her eyes and nose, and she declared that she was weeping- 
tears of blood for the misfortunes of the Protestants. And 
it was not only women and children. Stalwart, dangerous 
fellows, used to swing the sickle or to wield the forest axe, 
were likewise shaken with strange paroxysms, and spoke 
oracles with sobs and streaming tears. A persecution un- 
surpassed in violence had lasted near a score of years, and 
this was the result upon the persecuted; hanging, burn- 
ing, breaking on the wheel, had been vain; the dragoons 
had left their hoof-marks over all the country-side; there 
were men rowing in the galleys, and women pining in the 
prisons of the Church ; and not a thought was changed in 
the heart of any upright Protestant. 

Now the head and forefront of the persecution — after 
Lamoignon de Bavile^ — Frangois cle Langlade du Chayla 
(pronounced Cheila), Archpriest of the Cevennes and In- 
spector of Missions in the same country, had a house in 
which he sometimes dwelt in the town of Pont de Mont- 

1 Marshal ViUars was the marshal who finally reduced the Camisard 
rebellion, in 1704. 

2 Lamoignon de Bavile. "A crafty and cold-bloodedly cruel politician, 
without the excuse of any zealous religious conviction." — Guizot. At 
one time during the war, he had three hundred children imprisoned, 
and afterward sent to the galleys. 



PONT DE MOXTVERT 219 

vort. He was a conscientious person, who seems to have 
l)een intended hy nature for a pirate, and now fifty-five, 
an age hy which a man has learned all the moderation of 
which he is capable. A missionary in his youth in China, 
he there suffered martyrdom, was left for dead, and only 
succored and brought back to life by the cliarity of a pariah. 
We must suppose the pariah devoid of second sight, and 
not purposely malicious in this act. Such an experience, 
it might be thought, would have cured a man of the desire 
to persecute; but the human spirit is a thing strangely 
put together; and, having been a Christian martyr, Du 
(^hayla became a Christian persecutor. The Work of the 
Propagation of the Faith went roundly forward in his 
hands. His house in Pont de Montvert served him as a 
prison. There he plucked out the hairs of the beard, and 
closed the hands of his prisoners upon live coals, to con- 
vince them that they were deceived in their opinions. And 
yet had not he himself tried and proved the inefficacy of 
these carnal arguments among the Boodhists in China ? 

Not only was life made intolerable in Languedoc, but 
flight was rigidly forbidden. One Massip, a muleteer, and 
well acquainted with the mountain-paths, had already 
guided several troops of fugitives in safety to Geneva ; and 
on him, with another convoy, consisting mostly of women 
dressed as men, Du Chayla, in an evil hour for himself, 
laid his hands. The Sunday following, there was a con- 
venticle of Protestants in the woods of Altefage upon 
Mount Bouges; where there stood up one Seguier — Spirit 
Seguier, as his companions called him — a wool-carder, tall, 
black-faced, and toothless, but a man full of prophecy. He 
declared, in the name of God, that the time for submission 
had gone by, and they must betake themselves to arms for 
the deliverance of their brethren and the destruction of the 
priests. 

The next night, 2-ith July, 1702, a sound disturbed the 



220 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

Inspector of Missions as he sat in his prison-house- at Pont 
de Montvert ; the voices of many men upraised in psahnody 
drew nearer and nearer through the town. It was ten at 
night; he had his court aljout him, priests, soldiers, and 
servants, to the number of twelve or fifteen; and now 
dreading the insolence of a conventicle below his very win- 
dows, he ordered forth his soldiers to report. But the 
psalm-singers were already at his door, fifty strong, led by 
the inspired Seguier, and breathing death. To their sum- 
mons, the archpriest made answer like a stout old persecu- 
tor, and bade his garrison fire upon the mob. One Cam- 
isard (for, according to some, it was in this night's work 
that they came by the name) fell at this discharge; his 
comrades burst in the door with hatchets and a beam of 
wood, overran the lower story of the house, set free the 
prisoners, and finding one of them in the vine, a soi't of 
Scavenger's Daughter^ of the place and period, redoubled 
in fury against Du Chayla, and sought by repeated assaults 
to carry the upper floors. But he, on his side, had given 
absolution to his men, and they bravely held the staircase. 

"Children of God,'' cried the prophet, "hold your hands. 
Let us burn the house, with the priest and the satellites of 
Baal."2 

The fire caught readily. Out of an upper window Du 
Chayla and his men lowered themselves into the garden 
by means of knotted sheets ; some escaped across the river 
under the bullets of the insurgents; but the archpriest 
himself fell, broke his thigh, and could only crawl into the 
hedge. What were his reflections as this second martyr- 
dom drew near ? A poor, brave, besotted, hateful man, who 
had done his duty resolutely according to his light both in 
the Cevennes and China. He found at least one telling 
word to say in his defense; for when the roof fell in and 

1 Scavenger's Daughter. An instrument of torture invented by Sir 
William Skevington (of which name Scavenger is a corruption). 
^"nriests and satellites of Baal." See II Kings, X, 19. 



PONT DE MONT VERT 991 

the upbiirsting flames discovered his retreat, and they came 
and dragged him to the pn1)lic place of tlie town, raging 
and calling him damned — "If I be damned/' said he, "why 
should yon also damn yourselves?" 

Here was a good reason for the last ; but in the course 
of his inspectorship he had given many stronger which all 
told in a contrary direction ; and these he was now to hear. 
One by one, Seguier first, the Camisards drew near and 
stab1)cd him. "This," they said, "is for my father broken 
on the wheel. This for my brother in the galleys. That for 
my mother or my sister imprisoned in your cursed con- 
vents." Each gave his blow and his reason; and then all 
Icneeled and sang psalms around the body till the dawn. 
AVith the dawn, still singing, they defiled away towards 
Frugeres, further up the Tarn, to pursue the work of 
vengeance, leaving Du Chayla's prison-house in ruins, and 
his body pierced with two-and-fifty wounds upon the public 
place. 

'Tis a wild night's work, with its accompaniment of 
psalms; and it seems as if a psalm must always have a 
sound of threatening in that town upon the Tarn. But 
the story does not end, even so far as concerns Pont de 
Mont vert, with the departure of the Camisards. The 
career of Seguier was brief and bloody. Two more priests 
and a whole family at Ladeveze, from the father to the 
servants, fell by his hand or by his orders ; and yet he was 
])ut a day or two at large, and restrained all the time by 
the presence of the soldiery. Taken at length by a famous 
soldier of fortune. Captain Poul, he appeared unmoved 
before his judges. 

"Your name ?" they asked. 

"Pierre Seguier." 

"Why are you called Spirit ?" 

"Because the Spirit of the Lord is with me." 

"Your domicile?" 



222 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

"Lately in the desert, and soon in heaven." 

"Have you no remorse for your crimes ?" 

"I have committed none. My soul is like a garden full 
of shelter and of fountains." 

At Pont de Montvert, on the 12th of August, he had his 
] ight hand stricken from his body, and was burned alive. 
xVnd his soul was like a garden ? So perhaps was the soul 
of Du Chayla, the Christian martyr. And perhaps if you 
could read in my soul, or I could read in yours, our own 
composure might seem little less surprising. 

Du Chayla's house still stands, with a new roof, beside 
one of the bridges of the town, and if you are curious you 
may see the terrace-garden into wliich he dro^Dped. 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE TARN 

A NEW road leads from Pont de Montvert to Florae by 
the valley of the Tarn ; a smooth sandy ledge, it runs about 
half-way between the summit of the cliffs and the river in 
the bottom of the valley; and I went in and out, as I fol- 
lowed it, from bays of shadow into promontories of after- 
noon sun. This was a pass like that of Killiecrankie ;^ a 
deep turning gully in the hills, with the Tarn making a 
wonderful hoarse uproar far below, and craggy summits 
standing in the sunshine high above. A thin fringe of 
ash-trees ran about the hill-tops, like ivy on a ruin; but 
on the lower slopes, and far up every glen the Spanish 
chestnut-trees stood each four-square to heaven under its 
tented foliage. Some were planted each on its own ter- 

1 KillecranJcie. A pass in Perthshire, Scotland. Here, during the 
revolution in Scotland in 1G8S-1G92. the Highlanders commanded by 
Viscount Dundee, the representative of James II, defeated the govern- 
ment forces which supported the sovereignty of William and Mary. 



t 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE TARN 223 

race, no larger than a bed; some, trusting in their roots, 
found strength to grow and prosper and be straight and 
lixrge npon the rapid slopes of the valley; others, where 
there was a margin to the river, stood marshaled in a line 
and mighty like cedars of Lebanon. Yet even where they 
grew most thickly tliey were not to be thought of as a wood, 
but as a herd of stalwart individuals ; and the dome of each 
tree stood forth separate and large, and as it were a little 
hill, from among the domes of its companions. They gave 
forth a faint sweet perfume which pervaded the air of the 
afternoon; autumn had put tints of gold and tarnish in 
the green; and the sun so shone through and kindled the 
broad foliage, that each chestnut was relieved against an- 
other, not in shadow, but in light. A humble sketcher here 
laid down his pencil in despair. 

I wish I could convey a notion of the growth of these 
noble trees ; of how they strike out boughs like the oak, and 
trail sprays of drooping foliage like the willow; of how 
they stand on upright fluted columns like the pillars of 
a church; or like the olive, from the most shattered bole 
can put out smooth and youthful shoots, and begin a new 
life upon the ruins of the old. Thus they partake of the 
nature of many different trees ; and even their prickly 
top-knots, seen near at hand against the sky, have a cer- 
tain palm-like air that impresses the imagination. But 
their individuality, although compounded of so many ele- 
ments, is but the richer and the more original. And to 
look down upon a level filled with these knolls of foliage, or 
to see a clan of old unconquerable chestnuts cluster "like 
herded elephants'' upon the spur of a mountain, is to rise 
to higher thoughts of the powers that are in Nature. 

Between Modestine's laggard humor and the beauty of 
the scene, we made little progress all that afternoon ; and 
at last finding the sun, although still far from setting, was 



324 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

already beginning to desert the narrow valley of the Tarn, 
I began to cast about for a place to camp in. This was 
not easy to find ; the terraces were too narrow, and the 
ground, where it was nnterraced, was usually too steep for 
a man to lie upon. I should have slipped all night, and 
awakened towards morning with my feet or my head in the 
river. 

After perhaps a mile, 1 saw, some sixty feet above the 
road, a little plateau large enough to hold my sack, and 
securely parapeted by the trunk of an aged and enormous 
chestnut. Thither, with infinite trouble, I goaded and 
kicked the reluctant Modestine, and there 1 hastened to 
unload her. There was only room for myself upon the 
})lateau, and I had to go nearly as high again before I 
found so much as standing room for the ass. It was on a 
heap of rolling stones, on an artificial terrace, certainly not 
five feet square in all. Here I tied her to a chestnut, and 
having given her corn and bread and made a pile of chest- 
nut-leaves, of which I found her greedy, I descended once 
more to my own encampment. 

The position was unpleasantly exposed. One or two carts 
went by upon the road; and as long as daylight lasted I 
concealed myself, for all the world like a hunted Camisard, 
behind my fortification of vast chestnut trunk; for I was 
passionately afraid of discovery and the visit of Jocular 
persons in the night. Moreover, I saw that I must be 
early awake ; for these chestnut gardens had been the scene 
of industry no farther gone than on the day before. The 
slope was strewn with lopped branches, and here and there i 
a great package of leaves was propped against a trunk; for ■ 
even the leaves are serviceable, and the peasants use them 
in winter by way of fodder for their animals. I picked a 
meal in fear and treml)ling, half lying down to hide myself 
from the road ; and I dare say I was as much concerned 
as if I had been a scout from Joani's band above upon the 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE TARN 225 

Lozero or from Salomon's^ across the Tarn in the old times 
of psahn-singing and blood. Or, indeed, perhaps mor^; 
for the Camisards had a remarkable confidence in God; 
and a tale comes back into my memory of how the Count of 
Gevaudan, riding with a party of dragoons and a notary 
at his saddlebow to enforce the oath of fidelity in all the 
country hamlets, entered a valle}^ in the woods, and found 
Gavalier and his men at dinner, gayly seated on the grass, 
and their hats crowned with box-tree garlands, while fif- 
teen women washed their linen in the stream. Such was 
a field festival in 1703; at that date Antony Watteau- 
would be painting similar subjects. 

This was a very different camp from that of the night 
l)efore in the cool and silent pine-woods. It was warm and 
even stifling in the valley. The shrill song of frogs, like 
the tremolo note of a whistle with a pea in it, rang up 
from tlie riverside before the sun was down. In the grow- 
ing dusk, faint rustlings began to run to and fro among 
the fallen leaves; from time to time a faint chirping or 
cheeping noise would fall upon my ear; and from time to 
time I thought I could see the movement of something 
swift and indistinct between the chestnuts. A profusion of 
large ants swarmed upon tlie ground ; bats whisked by, and 
^mosquitoes droned overhead. The long boughs with their 
bunches of leaves hung against the sky like garlands; and 
those immediately above and around me had somewhat the 
air of a trellis which should have been wrecked and half 
overthrown in a gale of wind. 

Sleep for a long time fled my eyelids; and just as I 
was beginning to feel quiet stealing over my limbs, and 
settling densely on my mind, a noise at my head startled 
me broad awake again, and, I will frankly confess it, 

1 Joani and Salomon (Salomon Coudoiv) wore l>oth leaders of the 
Camisards. Salomon took a loremosl part in the murder of Du Chayla 

-Antony Watieau (1G84-1721) was a French painter of subjects 
representing conventional shepherds and shepherdesses. 



226 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

brought n\y heart into my mouth. It was such a noise as 
A person would make scratching loudly with a finger-nail, 
it came from under the knapsack which served me for a 
pillow, and it was thrice repeated before I had time to sit 
up and turn about. Nothing was to be seen, nothing more 
was to be heard, but a few of these mysterious rustlings far 
and near, and the ceaseless accompaniment of the river and 
the frogs. I learned next day tliat the chestnut gardens 
are infested by rats ; rustling, chirping, and scraping were 
probably all due to these ; l)ut the puzzle, for the moment, 
was insoluble, and I had to compose myself for sleep, as 
best I could, in wondering uncertainty about my neighl)ors. 

I was wakened in the gray of the morning (Monday, 
30th September) by the sound of footsteps not far off upon 
the stones, and opening my eyes, I beheld a peasant going 
by among the chestnuts by a footpath that I had not 
hitherto observed. He turned his head neither to the right 
nor to the left, and disappeared in a few strides among the 
foliage. Here was an escape ! But it was plainly more 
than time to be moving. The peasantry were abroad ; scarce 
less terrible to me in my nondescript position than the sol- 
diers of Captain Poul to an undaunted Camisard. I fed i 
Modestine with what haste I could ; but as I was returning ; 
to my sack, I saw a man and a boy come down the hillside; 
in a direction crossing mine. They unintelligibly hailed I 
me, and I replied with inarticulate but cheerful sounds, and! 
hurried forward to get into my gaiters. 

The pair, who seemed to be father and son, came slowly 
up to the plateau, and stood close beside me for some timei 
in silence. The bed was open, and I saw with regret my 
revolver lying patently disclosed on the blue wool. At last, 
after they had looked me all over, and the silence hadli 
grown laughably embarrassing, the man demanded in what 
seemed unfriendly tones : 

"You have slept here?" 



IX THE VALLEY OF THE TARN 227 

"Yes," said T. "As you see.'' 

"Why ?*Mie. asked. 

"My faitli,'' 1 answered lightly, ''I was tired." 

He next inquired where 1 was going and what I had 
had for dinner; and then, without the least transition, 
''C'est hicn/'^ he added. "Come along.'' And he and his 
son, without another word, turned off to the next chestnut- 
tree but one, which they set to pruning. The thing had 
passed off more simply than I hoped. He w^as a grave, 
respectable man; and his unfriendly voice did not imply 
that he thought he Avas speaking to a criminal, but merely 
to an inferior. 

I was soon on the road, nihl^ling a cake of chocolate and 
seriously occupied with a case of conscience. Was I to 
pay for my night's lodging? I had slept ill, the bed was 
full of fleas in the shape of ants, there was no water in 
the room, the very dawn had neglected to call me in the 
morning. I might have missed a train, liad there been any 
in the neighborhood to catch. Clearly, I was dissatisfied 
with my entertainment; and I decided I should not pay 
unless I met a beggar. 

The valley looked even lovelier by morning; and soon 
the road descended to the level of the river. Here, in a 
1)1 ace where many straight and prosperous chestnuts stood 
together, making an aisle upon a swarded terrace, I made 
my morning toilette in the water of the Tarn. It was mar- 
velously clear, thrillingly cool ; the soap-suds disappeared 
as if by magic in the swift current, and the white boulders 
gave one a model for cleanliness. To wash in one of God's 
rivers in the open air seems to me a sort of cheerful sol- 
emnity or semi-pagan act of worship. To dabble among 
dishes in a bedroom may perhaps make clean the body; but 
the imagination takes no share in such a cleansing. I went 

^'•C'est lien:' "AU right, vory wcU:"' 



228 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

on with a light and peaceful heart, and sang psahns to the 
sj^iritiial ear as 1 advanced. 

Suddenly up came an old woman, who point-blank de- 
manded alms. 

"Good !" thought I ; "here comes the waiter with the 
bilL" 

And I paid for my night's lodging on the spot. Take 
it how you please, but tliis was the first and the hist beggar 
that I met with during all my tour. 

A step or two farther I was overtaken by an old man 
in a brown nightcap, clear-eyed, Aveather-beaten, with a 
faint, excited smile. A little girl followed him, driving- 
two sheep and a goat; but she kept in our wake, Avhile the 
old man walked beside me and talked aljout the morning 
and the valley. It was not much past six; and for healthy 
people wdio have slept enough, that is an hour of expansion 
and of open and trustful talk. 

''Connaissez-vous h Seigneur?"'^ he said at length. 

I asked him what Seigneur he meant ; but he only 
repeated the question with more emphasis and a look in 
his eyes denoting hope and interest. 

"Ah !" said I, pointing upwards, "I understand you now. 
Yes, I know Him ; He is the best of acquaintances." 

The old man said he was delighted. "Hold," he added, 
striking his bosom ;' "it makes me happy here." There 
were a few who knew the Lord in these valleys, he went on 
to tell me; not many, but a few. "Many are called," he 
quoted, "and few chosen." 

"My father," said I, "it is not easy to say who know the 
Lord ; and it is none of our business. Protestants and 
Catholics, and even those who worship stones, may know 
Him and be known by Him; for He has made all." 

I did not know I was so good a preacher. 

The old man assured me he thought as I did, and re- 

'^"Connaisscs-voiis,- etc. '"Do vou know the Lord?" 



I 



I>^ THE VALLEY OF THE TARN 029 

peated his expressions of pleasure at meeting me. ^'We 
are so few/' he said. "They call us Moravians^ here: but 
down in tlie department of Gard, where there are also a 
t;ood num1)er, they are called Derbists, after an Engl is] 1 
pastor.'' 

I began to understand that I was figuring, in question- 
ahle taste, as a member of some sect to me unknown; but 
I was more pleased with the pleasure of my companion 
than embarrassed hy my own equivocal position. Indeed 
I can see no dislionesty in not avowing a difference; and 
especially in these high matters, where we have all a suffi- 
cient assurance that, whoever may be in the wrong, we 
ourselves are not completely in the right. The truth is 
much talked about; but this old man in a brown nightcap 
showed himself so simple, sweet, and friendly that I am 
not unwilling to profess myself his convert. He was, as a 
matter of fact, a Plymouth Brother. Of what that involves 
in the way of doctrine I have no idea nor the time to 
inform m3^self ; but I know right well that we are all 
eml)arked upon a troublesome world, the children of one 
Father, striving in many essential points to do and to 
become the same. And although it was somewhat in a mis- 
take that he shook hands with me so often and showed 
himself so ready to receive my words, that was a mistake 
of the truth-finding .sort. For charity begins blindfold; 
and only through a series of similar misapprehensions rises 
at length into a settled principle of love and patience, and 
a firm belief in all our fellow-men. If I deceived this good 
old man, in the like manner I would willingly go on to 
deceive others. And if ever at length, out of our separate 

1 Moravians. A religious sect, founded in Moravia in the fifteenth 
century by the followers of John IIuss, and now existing chiotiy in 
the United States. Great Britain, and Germany ; called also United 
Brethren. The Derbists (pronounced Daroists). or Darbyites. who are 
called also Plymouth Brethren, are the members of a sect originating 
in Plymouth, England, under the influence of John Darby. They have 
no formal creed or church organization, acknowledging as brethren all 
who believe in Christ and the Holy Spirit. 



230 TiiA\ J^i^lS WITH A JJUx\KJl.i: 

and sad ways, we should all come together into one com- 
mon house, I have a hope, to which 1 cling dearly, that my 
mountain Pkniouth Brother will hasten to shake hands 
with me again. 

Thus, talking like Christian and Faithful^ by the way, 
he and I came down upon a hamlet by the Tarn. It was 
but a humble place, called" La Vernede, with less than a 
dozen houses, and a Protestant chapel on a knoll. Here he 
dAvelt; and here, at the inn, I ordered my breakfast. The 
inn was kept by an agreeable young man, a stone-breaker on 
the road, and his sister, a pretty and engaging girl. The 
village school-master dropped in to speak with the stranger. 
And these were all Protestants — a fact which pleased me 
more than I should have expected ; and, what pleased me 
still more, they seemed all upright and simple people. The 
]^lymoutli Brother hung round me with a sort of yearning 
interest, and returned at least thrice to make sure I was 
enjoying my meal. His behavior touched me deeply at the 
time, and even now moves me in recollection. He feared 
to intrude, but he would not willingly forego one moment 
of my society; and he seemed never weary of shaking me 
by the hand. 

When all the rest had drifted off to their day's work, I 
sat for near half an hour with the young mistress of the 
house, who talked pleasantly over her seam of the chestnut 
harvest, and the beauties of the Tarn, and old family affec- 
tions, broken up when young folk go from home, yet still 
subsisting. Hers, I am sure, was a sweet nature, with a 
country plainness and much delicacy underneath ; and he 
who takes her to his heart will doubtless be a fortunate 
young man. 

The valley below La A^ernede pleased me more and more 
as I went forward. Xow the hills approached from either 
hand, naked and crumbling, and walled in the river be- 

1 Chrisliun and Faithful. Sec Pihjrim's Progress. 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE TAK^ 231 

tween cliffs; and now the valle}^ widened and became 
green. The road led me pa?t the old castle of Miral on a 
steep; past a battlemented monastery, long since broken 
np and turned into a church and parsonage; and past a 
cluster of black roofs, the village of Cocures, sitting among 
vineyards and meadows and orchards thick with red apples, 
and where, along the highway, they were knocking down 
walnuts from the roadside trees, and gathering them in 
sacks and baskets. The hills, however much the vale might 
open, were still tall and bare, with cliffy battlements and 
here and there a pointed summit; and the Tarn still rat- 
tled through the stones with a mountain noise. I had been 
led, by bagmen of a picturesque turn of mind, to expect a 
horrific country after the heart of Byron ;^ but to my 
Scotch eyes it seemed smiling and plentiful, as the weather 
still gave an impression of high summer to my Scotch 
body; although the chestnuts were already picked out by 
the autumn, and the poplars, that here began to mingle 
with them, had turned into pale gold against the approach 
of winter. 

There was something in this landscape, smiling although 
wild, that explained to me the spirit of the Southern Cov- 
enanters. Those who took to the hills for conscience' sake 
in Scotland had all gloomy and bedevilled thoughts; for 
once that they receiv-ed God's comfort they would be twice 
engaged with Satan; but the Camisards had only bright 

ifl JiorrifiG count)'!/ after the heart of Byron. An allusion to Byron's 
fonduoss for the wild, awe-inspiring aspects of natural scenery. 
"Iloiritic" has the connotation of "bristling" or "rough." The follow- 
ing )>assage from Byron's Childe Harold will illustrate Stevenson's 
meaning : 

"The roar of waters ! from the headlong height 
Veiino cleaves the wave worn precipice. 
The fall of waters I rapid as the light, 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss : 
"The hell of waters I where they howl and hiss, 
And boil an endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this, 
Their Phlegethon curls round the rocks of jet 
That gird the gulf aro'ind, in pitiless horror set." 



232 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

and supporting visions. They dealt niiicli more in blood, 
both given and taken ; yet I find no obsession of the Evil 
One in their records. With a light conscience, they pur- 
sued their life in these rough times and circumstances. 
1*lie soul of Seguier, let us not forget, was like a garden. 
They knew they were on (Jod's side, with a knowledge that 
has no parallel among the Scots; for the Scots, although 
they might be certain of the cause, could never rest confi- 
dent of the person. 

^^We flew," says one old Camisard, ^Svhen we heard the 
sound of psalm-singing, we flew as if with wings. AYe felt 
within us an animating ardor, a transporting desire. The 
feeling cannot be expressed in words. It is a thing that 
must have been experienced to be understood. However 
weary we might be, we thought no more of our weariness 
and grew light, so soon as the psalms fell upon our ears." 

The valley of the Tarn and the people whom 1 met at 
La Vernede not only explain to me this passage, but the 
twenty years of suffering which those, who were so stiff 
and so bloody when once they betook themselves to war, 
endured with the meekness of children and the constancy of 
saints and peasants. 



FLORAC 



On a branch of the Tarn stands Florae, the seat of a sub- 
prefecture, with an old castle, an alley of planes, many 
quaint street-corners, and a live fountain welling from the 
hill. It is notable, besides, for handsome women, and as 
one of the two capitals, Alais being the other, of the coun- 
try of the Camisards. 

The landlord of the inn took me, after I had- eaten, to 
an adjoining "cafe, where I, or rather my journey, became 
the topic of the afternoon. Every one had some sugges- 



FLORAC 233 

tion for my guidance; and tlie subprefectorial map was 
fetched from the subprefectiire itself, and much thumbed 
among coffee-cups and glasses of liqueur. Most of these 
kind advisers were Protestant, though I observed that Prot- 
estant and Catholic intermingled in a very easy manner; 
and it surprised me to see what a lively memory still suh- 
sisted of the religious war. Among the hills of the south- 
west, hy ^lauchline, Cumnock, or Carsphairn, in isolated 
farms or in the manse, serious Presbyterian people still 
recall the days of the great persecution, and the graves of 
local martyrs are still piously regarded. But in towns and 
among the so-called better classes, I fear that these old 
doings have become an idle tale. If you met a mixed com- 
pany in the King's Arms at Wigtown, it is not likely that 
the talk would run on Covenanters, ^ay, at Muirkirk of 
Glenluce, I found the beadle's wife had not so much as 
heard of Prophet Peden. But these Cevenols were proud 
of their ancestors in quite another sense; the war was 
their chosen topic; its exploits were their own patent of 
nobility : and where a man or a race has had but one adven- 
ture, and that heroic, we must expect and pardon some 
prolixity of reference. They told me the country was still 
full of legends hitherto uncollected; I heard from them 
about Cavalier's descendants — not direct descendants, be it 
understood, but only, cousins or nephews — who were still 
prosperous people in the scene of the boy-general's exploits ; 
and one farmer had seen the bones of old combatants dug 
up into the air of an afternoon in the nineteenth century, 
in a field where the ancestors had fought, and the great- 
grandchildren were peaceably ditching. 

Later in the day one of the Protestant pastors was so 
good as to visit me: a young man, intelligent and polite, 
with whom I passed an hour or two in talk. Florae, he 
told me, is part Protestant, part Catholic; and the differ- 
ence in religion is usually doubled hy a difference in poll- 



234 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

tics. Yon may judge of my surprise, coming as I did from 
8uch a babbling, purgatorial Poland of a place as Monas- 
tier, when I learned that the population lived together on 
very quiet terms; and tliere was even an exchange of hos- 
pitalities between households thus doubly separated. Black 
Camisard and White Camisard, militiaman and Miquelet^ 
and dragoon, Protestant prophet and Catholic cadet of the 
White Cross, they had all been sabring and shooting, burn- 
ing, pillaging and murdering, their hearts hot with indig- 
nant passion ; and here, after a hundred and seventy years, 
Protestant is still Protestant, Catholic still Catholic, in 
mutual toleration and mild amity of life. But the race of 
man, like that indomitable nature whence it sprang, has 
medicating virtues of its own ; the years and seasons bring 
various harvests ; the sun returns after the rain ; and man- 
kind outlives secular animosities, as a single man awakens 
from the passions of a day. We judge our ancestors from 
a more divine position; and the dust being a little laid 
with several centuries, we can see both sides adorned with 
human virtues and fighting with a show of right. 

I have never thought it easy to be just, and find it daily 
even harder than I thought. I own I met these Protestants 
with delight and a sense of coming home. I was accus- 
tomed to speak their language, in another and deeper sense 
of the word than that which distinguishes between French 
and English; for the true babel is a divergence upon 
morals. And hence I could hold more free communication 
with the Protestants, and judge them more justly, than 
the Catholics. Father Apollinaris may pair off with my 
mountain Plymouth Brother as two guileless and devout 
old men; yet I ask n^yself if I had as ready a feeling for 
the virtues of the Trappist ; or had I l^een a C^atholic, if '' 
I should have felt so warmly to the dissenter of La Ver 
nede. With the first I was on terms of mere forbearance; | 

1 Miquelet. An irreg^ulav soldier. 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE MIMENTE 235 

but with the other, although only on a misunderstanding 
and by keeping on selected points, it was still possible to 
hold converse and exchange some honest thoughts. In this 
world of imperfection we gladly welcome even partial inti- 
macies. If we find but one to whom we can speak out of 
our heart freely, with whom we can walk in love and sim- 
plicity without dissimulation, we have no ground of quar- 
rel with the Avorld or God. 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE MIMENTE 

On Tuesday, 1st October, we left Florae late in the after- 
noon, a tired donkey and tired donkey-driver. A little 
way up the Tarnon, a covered bridge of wood introduced 
us into the valley of the Mimente. Steep rocky red moun- 
tains overhung the stream ; great oaks and chestnuts grew 
upon the slopes or in stony terraces; here and there was 
a red field of millet or a few apple-trees studded with red 
apples ; and the road passed hard by two black hamlets, 
one with an old castle atop to please the heart of the 
tourist. 

It was difficult here again to find a spot fit for my en- 
campment. Even under the oaks and chestnuts the ground 
liad not only a very rapid slope, but was heaped with loose 
stones; and where there was no timber the hills descended 
to the stream in a red precipice tufted v/ith lieather. The 
sun had left the highest peak in front of me, and the valley 
Avas full of the lowing sound of herdsmen's horns as they 
recalled the flocks into the stable, when I spied a bight of 
meadow some way below the roadway in an angle of the 
river. Thither I descended, and, t3dng Modest ine pro- 
visionally to a tree, proceeded to investigate the neigh- 
borhood. A gray pearly evening shadow filled the glen; 
objects at a little distance grew indistinct and melted baf- 



236 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

flingly into each other; and the darkness was rising stead- 
ily like an exhalation. I approached a great oak which 
grew in the meadow, hard by the river's brink; when to 
my disgust the voices of children fell upon my ear, and I 
beheld a house round the angle on the other bank. I had 
half a mind to pack and be gone again, but the growing 
darkness moved me to remain. I had only to make no 
noise until the night was fairly come, and trust to the 
dawn to call me early in the morning. But it was hard 
to be annoyed by neighbors in such a great hotel. 

A hollow underneath the oak was my bed. Before I 
had fed Modestine and arranged my sack, three stars were 
already brightly shining, and the others were beginning 
dimly to appear. I slipped down to the river, which looked 
very black among its rocks, to fill my can ; and dined with 
a good appetite in the dark, for I scrupled to light a lan- 
tern while so near a house. The moon, which I had seen, 
a pallid crescent, all afternoon, faintly illuminated the 
summit of the hills, but not a ray fell into the bottom of 
the glen where I was lying. The oak rose before me like 
a pillar of darkness; and overhead the heartsome stars 
were set in the face of the night. No one knows the stars 
who has not slept, as the French happily put it, a la Idle 
etoile,^ He may know all their names and distances and 
magnitudes, and yet be ignorant of what alone concerns 
mankind — their serene and gladsome influence on the 
mind. The greater part of poetry is about the stars ; and 
very justly, for they are themselves the most classical of 
poets. These same far-away worlds, sprinkled like tapers 
or shaken together like a diamond dust upon the sky, had 
looked not otherwise to Eoland or Cavalier, when, in the 
words of the latter, they had '^no other tent but the sky, 
and no other bed than my mother earth.'' 

^ a la belle ctoile. In the open air : under the open sky. A 
survival of the older a Venseigne de la hcllc ctoile (at the sign of the 
beautiful star). 



IN THE A' ALLEY OF THE MIMENTE 937 

All night a strong wind blew up the valley, and the 
acorns fell pattering over me from the oak. Yet, on this 
first night of October, the air was as mild as May, and 1 
slept with the fur thrown back. 

I was much disturbed by the barking of a dog, an animal 
that I fear more than any wolf. A dog is vastly braver, 
and is besides supported by the sense of duty. If you kill 
a wolf, you meet with encouragement and praise; but if 
you kill a dog, the sacred rights of property and the domes- 
tic affections come clamoring round you for redress. At 
the end of a fagging day, the sharp, cruel note of a dog's 
hark is in itself a keen annoyance; and to a tramp like 
myself, he represents the sedentary and respectable world 
in its most hostile form. There is something of the clergy- 
man or the law3'er about this engaging animal ; and if he 
were not amenable to stones, the boldest man would shrinlc 
from traveling afoot. I respect dogs much in the domestic 
circle ; but on the highway or sleeping afield, I both detest 
and fear them. 

I was wakened next morning (Wednesday, October 2cl ) 
by the same dog — for I knew his bark — making a charge 
down the bank, and then, seeing me sit up, retreating again 
with great alacrity. The stars were not yet quite extin- 
guished. The heaven was of that enchanting mild gray- 
blue of the early morn. A still clear light began to fall, 
and the trees on the hillside were outlined sharply against 
the sky. The wind had veered more to the north, and no 
longer reached me in the glen ; but as I was going on with 
my preparations, it drove a white cloud very swiftly over 
the hill-top; and looking up, I was surprised to see the 
cloud dyed with gold. In these high regions of the air, the 
sun was already shining as at noon. If only the clouds 
traveled high enough, we should see the same thing all 
night long. For it is always daylight in the fields of 
space. 



238 TEAA^ELS WITH A DONKEY 

As I began to go up the valley, a draught of wind came 
down it out of the seat of the sunrise, although the clouds 
continued to run overhead in an almost contrary direc- 
tion. A few steps farther, and I saw a whole hillside 
gilded with the sun ; and still a little beyond, between two 
peaks, a center of dazzling brilliancy appeared floating in 
the sky, and I was once more face to face with the big 
bonfire that occupies the kernel of our system. 

I met but one human being that forenoon, a dark, mili- 
tary-looking wayfarer, who carried a game-bag on a bal- 
dric ; but he made a remark that seems worthy of record. 
For when I asked him if he were Protestant or Catholic — 

^'0/' said he, "I make no shame of my religion. I am 
a Catholic." 

He made no shame of it ! The phrase is a piece of nat- 
ural statistics; for it is the language of one in a minority. 
I thought with a smile of Bavile and his dragoons, and 
how you may ride rough-shod over a religion for a century, 
and leave it only the more lively for the friction. Ireland 
is still Catholic; the Cevennes still Protestant. It is not 
a basketful of law-papers, nor the hoof and pistol-butts of 
a regiment of horse, that can change one tittle of a plough- 
man's thoughts. Outdoor rustic people have not many 
ideas, but such as they have are hardy plants and thrive 
flourishingly in persecution. One who has grown a long 
while in the sweat of laborious noons, and under the stars 
at night, a frequenter of hills and forests, an old honest 
countryman, has, in the end, a sense of communion with 
the powers of the universe, and amicable relations towards 
his God. Like my mountain Plymouth Brother, he knows 
the Lord. His religion does not repose upon a choice of 
logic; it is the poetry of the man's experience, the philos- 
ophy of the history of his life. God, like a great power, 
like a great shining sun, has appeared to this simple fellow 
in the course of years, and become the ground and essence 



THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY 239 

of his least reflections; and you may change creeds and 
dogmas by authority^, or proclaim a new religion with the 
sound of trumpets, if you will ; but here is a man who has 
his own thoughts, and will stubbornly adhere to them in 
good and evil. He is a Catholic, a Protestant, or a Plym- 
outh Brother, in the same indefeasible sense that a man 
is not a woman, or a woman not a man. For he could not 
vary from his faith, unless he could eradicate all memory 
of the past, and, in a strict and not a conventional mean- 
ing, change his mind. 



THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY 

I WAS now drawing near to Cassagnas, a cluster of black 
roofs upon the hillside, in this wild valley, among chest- 
nut gardens, and looked upon in the clear air by many 
rocky peaks. The road along the Mimente is yet new, nor 
have the mountaineers recovered their surprise when the 
first cart arrived at Cassagnas. But although it lay thus 
apart from the current of men's business, this hamlet had 
already made a figure in the history of France. Hard by, 
in caverns of the mountain, was one of the five arsenals 
of the Camisards; where they laid up clothes and corn 
and arms against necessity, forged bayonets and sabres, 
and made themselves gunpowder with willow char- 
coal and saltpetre boiled in kettles. To the same 
caves, amid this multifarious industry, the sick and 
wounded were brought up to heal ; and there they were 
visited by the two surgeons, Chabrier and Tavan, and 
secretly nursed by women of the neighborhood. 

Of the five legions into which the Camisards were 
divided, it was the oldest and the most obscure that had 
its magazines by Cassagnas. This was the band of Spirit 
Seguier ; men w^ho had joined their voices Avith his in the 
68th Psalm as they marched down by night on the arch- 



240 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

priest of the Cevennes, Seguier, promoted to heaven, was 
succeeded by Salomon Coiulerc, whom Cavalier treats in his 
memoirs as chaplain-general to the whole army of the 
Camisards. He was a prophet ; a great reader of the heart, 
who admitted people to tlie sacrament or refused them 
by "intentively viewing every man'' between the eyes; and 
had the most of the Scriptures off by rote. And this was 
vsurely happy; since in a surprise *in August, 1703, he lost 
his mule, his portfolios, and his Bible. It is only strange 
that they were not surprised more often and more ef- 
fectually; for this legion of Cassagnas was truly patri- 
archal in its theory of war, and camped without sentries, 
leaving that duty to the angels of the God for whom 
they fought. This is a token, not only of their faith, 
but of the trackless country where the}^ harbored. M. de 
C'aladon, taking a stroll one fine da}', walked without 
warning into tlieir midst, as he miglit have walked into 
"a flock of sheep in a plain/' and found some asleep and 
some awake and j)salm-singing. A traitor had need of 
no recommendation to insinuate himself among their 
ranks, beyond ^'his faculty of singing psalms;" and even 
the prophet Salomon "took him into a particular friend- 
ship."' Thus, among their intricate hills, tlie rustic troop 
subsisted ; and history can attribute few exploits to them 
but sacraments and ecstasies. 

People of this tough and simple stock Avill not, as T 
have just been saying, prove variable in religion ; nor 
will they get nearer to apostasy than a mere external con- 
formity like that of Xaaman in the house of Eimmon.^ 
When Louis XVI., in the words of the edict, "convinced 
by the uselessness of a century of persecutions, -and rather 
from necessity than sympathy/' granted at last a royal 
grace of toleration, Cassagnas was still Protestant; and to 
a man, it is so to this day. There is, indeed, one family 

1 For the story of Naaman in the house of Rimmon see II Kings, V. 



THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY 241 

that is not Protestant, but neither is it Catholic. It is 
that of a Catholic cure in revolt, who has taken to his 
bosom a schoolmistress. And his conduct, it's worth not- 
ing, is disapproved by the Protestant villagers. 

"It is a bad idea,^' said one, ''for a man to go back from 
his engagements." 

The villagers whom I saw seemed intelligent after a 
countrified fashion, and were all plain and dignified in 
manner. As a Protestant myself, I was well looked upon, 
and my acquaintance with history gained me farther re- 
spect. For we had something not unlike a religious con- 
troversy at table, a gendarme and a merchant with whom 
1 dined being both strangers to the place and Catholics. 
The young men of the house stood round and supported 
me; and the whole discussion was tolerantly conducted, 
and surprised a man brought up among the infinitesimal 
and contentious differences of Scotland. The merchant, 
indeed, grew a little warm, and was far less pleased than 
some others with my historical acquirements. But the 
gendarme was might}^ easy over it all. 

"It's a bad idea for a man to change," said he; and the 
remark was generally applauded. 

That was not the opinion of the priest and soldier 
at our Lady of the Snows. But this is a different race; 
and perhaps the same great-heartedness that upheld them 
to resist, now enables them to differ in a kind spirit. For 
courage respects courage; but where a faith has been trod- 
den out, we may look for a mean and narrow population. 
The true work of Bruce and Wallace^ was the union of 
the nations; not that they should stand apart a Avhile 

^ Bruce and ^Tanace. Robert Bruce (1274-1329). Robert I of 
Scotland, resisted the claims of the English king, Edward I, to the 
suzerainty of Scotland. He defeated Edward II at Bannockburn in 
^^.'AA. His independent title was recognized by England in 132S. 
William Wallace likewise resisted the English power under Edward I. 
In 121)7 he defeated the English at the battle of Stirling Bridge. He 
was finally betrayed to the English and executed for treason." 



242 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

longer, skirmishing upon their borders; but that, when 
the time came, tliey might unite with self-respect. 

The merchant was much interested in my journey, and 
thought it dangerous to sleep afield. 

"There are the wolves,'' said he; "and then it is known 
you are an Englishman. The English have always long 
purses, and it might very well enter into some one's head 
to deal you an ill blow some night." 

I told him I was not much afraid of such accidents; 
and at any rate judged it unwise to dwell upon alarms 
or consider small perils in the arrangement of life. Life 
itself, I sulmiitted, was a far too risky business as a whole 
to make each additional particular of danger worth re- 
gard. "Something," said I, "might burst in your inside 
any day of the week, and there would be an end of you, 
if vou were locked into your room with three turns of 
the"^key." 

^^Ce pendant," said he, "coiichrr dehors T^'^ 

"God," said I, "is everywhere." 

"Cependant, coucher dehors" he rejoeated, and his voice 
was eloquent of terror. 

He was the only person, in all my voyage, who saw any- 
thing hardy in so simple a proceeding ; although many con- 
sidered it superfluous. Only one, on the other hand, pro- 
fessed much delight in the idea; and tliat was my Plym- 
outh Brother, who cried out, when I told him I some- 
times preferred sleeping under the stars to a close and 
noisy alehouse, "^ow I see that you know the Lord !" 

The merchant asked me for one of my cards as I was 
leaving, for he said I should be something to talk of in 
the future, and desired me to make a note of his request 
and reason ; a desire with which I have thus complied. 

A little after two I struck across the Mimente, and took 

1 Cepcmlonf, rniiclirr deltoi!^." "'HTit to think of sleeping out of 
doors !" 



THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY 243 

a rugged path southward up a hillside covered with loose 
stones and tufts of heather. At the top, as is the habit 
of the country, the path disappeared; and I left my 
she-ass munching heather, and went forward alone to 
seek a road. 

I Avas now on the separation of two vast watersheds; 
behind me all the streams were bound for the Garonne 
and the "Western Ocean ; before me was the basin of the 
Rhone. Hence, as from the Lozere, you can see in clear 
weather the shining of the Gulf of Lyons; and perhaps 
from here the soldiers of Salomon may have watched for 
the topsails of Sir Cloudesley Shovel,^ and the long- 
promised aid from England. You may take this ridge as 
lying in the heart of the country of the Camisards; four 
of the five legions camped all round it and almost within 
view — Salomon and Joani to the north, Castanet and Eo- 
land to the south ; and when Julien had finished his famous 
work, the devastation of the High Cevennes, which lasted 
all through October and November, 1703, and during 
which four hundred and sixty villages and hamlets were, 
with fire and pickaxe, utterly subverted, a man standing on 
this eminence would have looked forth upon a silent, 
smokeless, and dispeopled land. Time and man's activity 
have now repaired these ruins; Cassagnas is once more 
roofed and sending up domestic smoke; and in the chest- 
nut gardens, in low and leafy corners, many a prosperous 
farmer returns, when the day's work is done, to his chil- 
dren and bright hearth. And still it was perhaps the 
wildest view of all my Journey. Peak upon peak, chain 
upon chain of hills ran. surging southward, channelled and 
sculptured by the winter streams, feathered from head to 
foot with chestnuts, and here and there breaking out into 

i/SiV Cloudesley Shovel. An English Admiral (1650-1707). The 
Camisards expected aid from England. On one occasion, Sir Cloudes- 
loy's ship appeared in the offing, and was joined by two other men-of- 
war. But receiving no answer to the signals which they made to the 
insurgents, they withdrew and returned to England. 



044 TKAA^ELS WITH A DONKEY 

a coronal of cliffs. The sun, which was still far from set- 
ting, sent a drift of misty gold across the hill-tops, but 
the valleys were alread}^ plunged in a profound and quiet 
shadow. 

A very old shepherd, hobbling on a pair of sticks, and 
wearing a black cap of liberty, as if in honor of his near- 
ness to the grave, directed me to the road for St. Germain 
de Calberte. There was something solemn in the isola- 
tion of this infirm and ancient creature. Where he dwelt, 
how he got upon this high ridge, or how he proposed to 
get down again, were more than I could fancy. Xot far 
off upon my right was the famous Plan de Font ivlorte, 
where Foul with his Armenian sabre slashed down the 
Camisards of Seguier. This, methought, might be some 
Iiip, A^an AYinkle of the war, who had lost his comrades, 
fleeing before Poul, and wandered ever since upon the 
mountains. It might be news to him that Cavalier had 
surrendered, or Poland had fallen fighting with his back 
against an olive. And while I was thus working on my 
fancy, I heard him hailing in broken tones, and saw liiiu 
Y\'aving me to come back with one of his two sticks. I 
had already got some way past him ; but, leaving Modest ine 
once more, retraced my steps. 

Alas, it was a very commonplace affair. The old gentle- 
man had forgot to ask the j^edlar what he sold, and wished 
to remedy this neglect. 

I told him .sternly, ^'Xothing.'^ 

"Nothing?" cried he. 

I repeated "Xothing,'' and made off. 

It's odd to think of, but perhaps I thus became as in- 
explicable to the old man as he had been to me. 

The road lay under chestnuts, and though I saw a ham- 
let or two below me in the vale, and many lone houses of | 
tlie chestnut farmers, it was a very solitary march all 
afternoon; and the evening began early underneath the 



THE HEART OF THE COrXTET 045 

trees. But I heard the voice of a woman singing some 
sad, old, endless ballad not far off. It seemed to be about 
love and a hel amoureux, her handsome sweetheart; and 
I wished I could have taken up the strain and answered 
her, as I went on upon my invisible woodland way, weav- 
ing, like Pippa in the poem,^ ]uy own thoughts with hers 
What could I have told her? Little enough; and yet all 
the heart requires. How the world gives and takes away, 
aiid brings sweethearts near, only to separate them again 
into distant and strange lands; but to love is the great 
amulet which makes the world a garden ; and ''hope, which 
comes to all," outwears the accidents of life, and reaches 
with tremulous hand beyond the grave and death. Easy 
to say: yea, but also, by God's mercy, both easy and 
grateful to believe ! 

We struck at last into a wide white high-road, carpeted 
with noiseless dust. The night had come; the moon had 
been shining for a long while upon the opposite moun- 
tain ; when on turning a corner my donkey and I issued 
ourselves into her light. I had emptied out my brandy 
at Florae, for I could bear the stuff no longer, and replaced 
it with some generous and scented Volnay; and now I 
drank to the moon's sacred majesty upon the road. It was 
but a couple of mouthfuls; yet I became thenceforth un- 
conscious of my limbs, and my blood flowed with luxury. 
Even Modestine was inspired by this purified nocturnal 
sunshine, and bestirred her little -hoofs as to a livelier 
measure. The road wound and descended swiftly among 
masses of chestnuts. - Hot dust rose from our feet and 
flowed away. Our two shadows — mine deformed with the 



1 Pippa in the poem. In Browning's Pippa Passes', Pippa. a silk- 
weaver, having but one holiday in all the year, decides to enjoy it by 
fancying that she tastes "of the pleasures" and is "called by the names 
of the Happiest Four in Asolo." As she passes through the city sing- 
ing, the words of her songs are heard by the "Flappiest Four," just 
at the moment when each confronts a grave crisis in his life, and 
influence his decision for good. 



246 TRAA'ELS WITH A DONKEY 

knapsack, hers comically bestridden by the pack — now lay 
before us clearly outlined on the road, and now, as we 
turned a corner, went off into the ghostly distance, and 
sailed along the mountainlike clouds. From time to time 
a warm wind rustled down the valley, and set all the 
chestnuts dangling their bunches of foliage and fruit; the 
ear w^as filled with whispering music, and the shadows 
danced in tune. And next moment the breeze had gone 
by, and in all the valley nothing moved except our travel- 
ing feet. On the opposite slope, the monstrous ribs and 
gullies of the mountain were faintly designed in the moon- 
sliine ; and high overhead, in some lone house, there burned 
one lighted window, one square spark of red in the huge 
field of sad nocturnal coloring. 

At a certain point, as I Avent downward, turning many 
acute angles, the moon disappeared behind the hill; and 
I pursued my way in great darkness, until another turn- 
ing shot rpe without preparation into St. Germain de Cal- 
l)erte. The place was asleep and silent, and buried in 
opaque night. Only from a single open door, some lamp- 
light escaped upon the road to show me I was come among 
men^s habitations. The two last gossips of the evening, 
still talking by a garden wall, directed me to the inn. 
The landlady was getting her chicks to bed; the fire was 
already out, and had, not without grumbling, to be re- 
kindled ; half an hour later, and I must have gone supper- 
less to roost. 



THE LAST DAY 247 

THE LAST DAY 

WiiEX I awoke (Thursday, 2d Octobci), and, hearing a 
great flourishing of coeks and chuckling of contented liens, 
betook me to the window of the clean and comfortable 
room where 1 had slept the night, I looked forth on a sun- 
shiny morning in a deep vale of chestnut gardens. It was 
still early, and the cockcrows, and the slanting lights, and 
the long shadows encouraged me to be out and look round 
me. 

St. Germain de Calberte is a great parish nine leagues 
round about. At the period of the wars, and immediately 
before the devastation, it was inhabited by two hundred 
and seventy-five families, of which only nine were Cath- 
olic; and it took the cure seventeen September days to go 
from house to house on horseback for a census. But the 
place itself, although capital of a canton, is scarce larger 
than a hamlet. It lies terraced across a steep slope in 
the midst of might}^ chestnuts. The Protestant chapel 
stands below upon a shoulder; in the midst of the town 
is the quaint old Catholic church. 

It was here that poor I)u Chayla, the Christian martyr, 
kept his library and held a court of missionaries ; here he 
had built his tomb, thinking to lie among a grateful popu- 
lation whom he had redeemed from error; and hither on 
the morrow of his death they brought the body, pierced 
with two-and-fifty wounds, to be interred. Clad in his 
priestly robes, he was laid out in state in the church. 
The cure, taking his text from Second Samuel, twentieth 
chapter and twelfth verse, "And Amasa wallowed in his 
blood in the highway,'" preached a rousing sermon, 
and exhorted his brethren to die each at his post, like 
their unhappy and illustrious superior. In the midst 
of this eloquence there came a breeze that Spirit Seguier 
was near at hand; and behold! all the assembly took to. 



248 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

their horses' heels, some ea^^t, some west, and the cure 
himself as far as Alais. 

Strange was the position of tliis little Catholic metrop- 
olis, a thimbleful of Rome, in such a wild and contrary 
neighborhood. On the one hand, the legion of Salomon 
overlooked it from Cassagnas; on the other, it was cut 
off from assistance by tiie legion of Roland at Mialet. 
The cure, LouvrclcnU, although he took a panic at the 
archpriest's funeral, and so liiirriedly decamped to Alais, 
stood well by his isolated pulpit, and thence uttered ful- 
minations against the crimes of the Protestants. Salomon 
besieged the village for an hour and a half, but was l)cat 
back. Tlie militiamen, on guard before the cures door, 
could be heard, in tlie l)lack houi's, singing Protestant 
psalms and holding friendly talk with the insurgents. And 
in the morning, although not a shot had been fired, there 
would not be a round of powder in their flasks. Where was 
it gone? All handed over to tlie Camisards for a con- 
sideration. Un trusty guardians for an isolated priest ! 

That these continual stirs were once busy in St. Germain 
de Call)erte, the imagination with difficulty receives; all 
is now so (piiet, the pulse of human life now beats so low 
and still in this hamlet of the mountains. Boys followed 
me a great way off, like a timid sort of lion-hunters; 
and people turned round to have a second look, or .came 
out of their houses, as I went by. My passage was the 
first event, you would have fancied, since the Camisards. 
There was nothing rude or forward in this observation ; 
it was but a pleased and wondering scrutiny, like that of 
oxen or the human infant ; yet it wearied my spirits, and 
soon drove me from the street. 

I took refuge on the terraces, which are here greenly 
carpeted with sward., and tried to imitate with a pencil 
the inimitable attitudes of the chestnuts as they bear 
up their canopy of leaves. Ever and again a little wind 



THE LAST DAY 249 

went by, and the nuts dropped all around me, with a light 
and dull sound, upon the sward. The noise was as of a 
thin fall of great hailstones; but there went with it a 
cheerful human sentiment of an approaching harvest and 
farmers rejoicing in their gains. Looking up, I could see 
the brown nut peering through the husk, which was already 
gaping; and between the stems the eye embraced an am- 
phitheatre of hill, sunlit and green with leaves. 

I have not often enjoyed a place more deeply. I moved 
in an atmosphere of pleasure, and felt light and quiet and 
content. But perhaps it was not the place alone that so 
disposed my spirit. Perhaps some one was thinking of me 
in another country ; or perhaps some thought of my own 
had come and gone unnoticed, and yet done me good. 
For some thoughts, which sure would be the most beau- 
tiful, vanish before we can rightly scan their features ; 
as though a god, traveling by our green highways, should 
but ope the door, give one smiling look into the house, 
and go again forever. Was it Apollo, or Mercury, or Love 
with folded wings? Who shall say? But we go the lighter 
about our business, and feel peace and pleasure in our 
hearts. 

I dined with a pair of Catholics. They agreed in the 
condemnation of a young man, a Catholic, who had mar- 
ried a Protestant girl and gone over to the religion of 
his wife. A Protestant born they could understand and 
respect; indeed, they seemed to be of the mind of an 
old Catholic woman, who told me that same day there 
was no difference ' between the two sects, save that 
"wrong was more wrong for the Catholic," who had more 
light and guidance ; but this of a man's desertion filled them 
with contempt. 

"It is a bad idea for a man to change," said one. 

It may have been accidental, but you see how this phrase 



250 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

pursued me; and for myself, I believe it is the current 
philosophy in these parts. 1 have some difficulty in imagin- 
ing a better. It's not only a great flight of confidence 
for a man to change his creed and go out of his family 
for heaven's sake; but the odds are — nay, and the hope is 
— that, with all this great transition in the eyes of man, 
he has not changed himself a hair's-breadth to the eyes of 
God. Honor to those who do so, for the wrench is sore. 
But it argues something narrow, whether of strength or 
weakness, whether of the prophet or the fool, in those who 
can take a sufficient interest in such infinitesimal and 
human operations, or who can quit a friendship for a 
doubtful process of the mind. And I think I should not 
leave my old creed for another, changing only words for 
other words; but by some brave reading, embrace it in 
spirit and truth, and find wrong as wrong for me as for 
the best of other communions. 

The phylloxera^ was in the neighborhood; and instead 
of wine we drank at dinner a more economical juice of 
the grape — la Parisienne, they call it. It is made by 
putting the fruit whole into a cask with water; one by 
one the berries ferment and burst; what is drunk during 
the day is supplied at night in water; so, with ever an- 
other pitcher from the well, and ever another grape ex- 
ploding and giving out its strength, one cask of Parisienne 
may last a family till spring. It is, as the reader will 
anticipate, a feeble beverage, but very pleasant to the 
taste. 

What with dinner and coffee, it was long past three be- 
fore I left St. Germain de Calberte. I went down be- 
side the Garden of Mialet, a great glaring watercourse 
devoid of water, and through St. Etienne de Vallee 
rran(;aise, or Val Francesque, as they used to call it; and 
towards evening began to ascend the hill of St. Pierre. 

^ Phylloxera. A genus of plant lice. 



THE LAST DAY 251 

It was a long and steep ascent. Behind me an empty 
carriage returning to St. Jean du Gard kept hard upon 
my tracks, and near the summit overtook me. The driver, 
like the rest of the world, was sure I was a pedlar; hut, 
unlike others, he was sure of vrhat I had to sell. He had 
noticed the hlue wool which hung out of my pack at 
either end; and from this he had decided, beyond my 
power to alter his decision, that I dealt in blue-wool 
collars, such as decorate the neck of the French draught- 
horse. 

I had hurried to the topmost powers of Modestine, for 
I dearly desired to see the view upon the other side before 
the day had faded. But it was night when I reached 
the summit; the moon was riding high and clear; and 
only a few gray streaks of twilight lingered in the west. 
A yawning valley, gulfed in blackness, lay like a hole in 
created nature at my feet; but the outline of the hills was 
sharp against the sky. There was Mount Aigoal, the 
stronghold of Castanet. And Castanet, not only as an 
active undertaking leader, deserves some mention among 
C*amisards ; for there is a spray of rose among his laurel : 
and he showed how, even in a public tragedy, love will 
have its way. In the high tide of war he married, in 
liis mountain citadel, a young and pretty lass called Ma- 
riette. There were great rejoicings; and the bridegroom 
released five-and-twenty prisoners in honor of the glad 
event. Seven months afterwards Mariette, the Princess of 
the Cevennes, as they called her in derision, fell into the 
hands of the authorities, where it was like to have gone 
hard with her. But Castanet was a man of execution, and 
loved his wife. He fell on Valleraugue, and got a lady 
there for a hostage ; and for the first and last time in that 
war there was an exchange of prisoners. Their daughter, 
pledge of some starry night upon Mount Aigoal, has left 
descendants to this da v. 



252 TKAYELS WITH A DONKEY 

_Modestine and I — it was our last meal together — had 
a snack upon the top of St. Pierre, I on a heap of stones, 
she standing- by me in the moonlight and decorously eat- 
ing bread out of my hand. The poor brute would eat more 
heartily in this manner; for she had a sort of affection 
for me, which I was soon to betray. 

It was a long descent upon St. Jean du Gard, and we 
met no one but a carter, visible afar off by the glint of 
the moon on his extinguished lantern. 

Before ten o'clock we had got in and were at supper; 
fifteen miles and a stiff hiii in little l)evond six hours! 



FAEEWELL, MODESTINE 

On examination, on the morning of Octv)l:)er 3d, Modestine 
was pronounced unfit for travel. She would need at least 
two days' repose according to the ostler; but I was now 
eager to reach Alais for my letters ; and, being in a civil- 
ized country of stage-coaches, I determined to sell my 
lady-friend and be off by the diligence that afternoon. 
Our yesterday's march, with the testimony of the driver 
wlio had pursued us up the long hill of St. Pierre, spread 
a favorable notion of my donkey's capabilities. Intending 
purchasers were aware of an unrivalled opportunit3^ Be- 
fore ten I had an offer of twenty-five francs; and before 
noon, after a despei-ate engagement, I sold her, saddle 
and all, for five-and-tliirty. The pecuniary gain is not 
obvious, but I had bouglit freedom into the bargain. 

St. Jean du Gard is a large place and largely Protestant. 
The maire,^ a Protestant, .asked me to help him in a small 
matter which is itself characteristic of the country. The 
young women of the Cevennes profit l)y the common re- 
ligion and the difference of the language to go largely as 

1 maire. Mayor. 



FAKEWELL, MODESTINE 253 

governesses into England ; and here was one, a native of 
JMialet, struggling witli English circulars from two differ- 
ent agencies in London. I gave what help I could; and 
volunteered some advice, which struck me as being ex- 
cellent. 

One thing more I note. Tlie phylloxera has ravaged the 
vineyards in this neighborhood; and in the early morning, 
under some chestnuts by the river, I found a party of 
men working with a cider-press. I could not at first make 
out what they were after, and asked one fellow to explain. 

^'Making cider," he tsaid. ''Oui, c'est commc ga. Comme 
dans h nord!"^ 

There was a ring of sarcasm in his voice: the country 
was going to the devil. 

It was not until I was fairly seated l)y the driver, and 
rattling through a rocky valley with dwarf olives, that I 
became aware of my bereavement. I had lost Modestine. 
V\) to that luoment I had thought I hated her; but now 
she was gone. 

And, 0. 
The difference to me! 

For twelve days we had Ijeen fast companions; we had 
traveled upwards of a hundred and twenty miles, crossed 
several respectable ridges, and jogged along with our six 
legs by many a rock}' and many a boggy by-road. After 
the first da}', although sometimes I was hurt and distant 
in manner, I still kept my patience; and as for her, poor 
soul ! she had come to regard me as a god. She loved 
to eat out of my hand. She was patient, elegant in form, 
the color of an ideal mouse, and inimitably small. Her 
faults were those of her race and sex ; her virtues were her 
own. Farewell, and if forever — 

'^"Oui, ('est comnic fo." "Yes, that's what we're doing. As they 
do in the north I" 



254 TEAA'ELS WITH A DONKEY 

Father Adam wept when he sold her to me; after I had 
Rold her in my turn, I was tempted to follow his example ; 
and heing alone with a stage-driver and four or five agree- 
ahle voung men, I did not hesitate to yield to my emotion. 



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